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Through 

Pain 


Sarah Doudoey 


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Through Pain to Peace 


a movei 






SARAH DOUDNEY 


AUTHOR OF 


“A woman’s glory,” “the missing rubies,” “ godiva 
DURLEIGH,” ETC. 



“ What I have, I see as in the distance : and what is gone becomes 
a reality to me.”— Faust. 


( 


'tftS AW Or 


SEP 21 1892 





NEW YORK 

JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY 

1 19 Potter Building 



19 





Copyright, 1892, by 

JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY 

i 

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CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — Tracy’s Knight, * 7 

II. — Laura’s Bridegroom 16 

III. — Water-Lilies, 25 

IV. — Rescued, 31 

V. — Balmy Days, 40 

VI. — Hopes and Dreams, 49 

VII. — Long Gardens, . 57 

VIII. — Deciding, 67 

IX. — By the Lake, 74 

X. — The Old Hero, 81 

XI. — St. Monica’s, 89 

XII. — Lady Montjoy’s Views, 98 

XIII. — Misgivings, 105 

XIV. — Palmistry, 112 

XV. — The Gypsy, 117 

XVI. — Searchings of Heart, 125 

XVII. — Talking by the Fire, 131 

XVIII. — Grace’s Opportunity, 137 

XIX. — Mrs. Endon’s Anxieties, 144 

XX. — In the Woods, 149 

XXI. — The Bond that Chafed, 156 

XXII.— Breaking Free, . . . . . .163 

XXIII. — Disquiet 169 

XXIV.— “We Must Part,” 178 


6 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXV. — A Great Calm, 186 

XXVI. — Grace’s Hopes, 192 

XXVII.— Won, 200 

XXVIII. — Peaceful Hours, 208 

XXIX. — Parting, 213 

XXX. — Farewells, 223 

XXXI. — The Story of Wilmot Linn, . . . 229 

XXXII. — An Empty House, 237 

XXXIII. — All Saints, . . • 242 

XXXIV. — Bitter and Sweet, 251 

XXXV. — Recognition, 262 

XXXVI. — Hours in the Studio 271 

XXXVII.— Marget, . . . . . . .277 

XXXVIII.— Together, 286 

XXXIX. — From Soul to Soul, 294 

XL. — Left Alone, 300 

XLI. — A Mystery, . . . . . . . 305 

XLII. — Toiling On, 313 

XLIII. — What Pascoe Told, 320 

XLIV. — A Victory, 325 

XLV. — Life-Work, 333 

XL VI. — Going to Sandystone, . . , . 339 

XLVII. — Out on the Sands, 346 

XLVIIL— Saved 353 

XLIX. — The Reward of Love 359 

L. — Two Loves 367 

LI. — Peace, . . 373 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


CHAPTER I. 
tracy’s knight. 

“Life may' be given in many ways, 

And loyalty to Truth be sealed 
As bravely in the closet as the field. ” 

— Lowell. 

“Miss Tracy!” 

The voice came ringing faintly into the dim room 
where a girl of twelve was talking to herself in the 
dusk. Dim as it was there, the last light of the au- 
tumn day was still resting on a picture which hung 
near one of the windows, and Tracy stood gazing at 
it With tears in her solemn dark eyes. 

She was a slim, Italian-looking child, with a pale 
little face set in a cloud of wavy hair as black as 
night. Over her plain frock and holland apron 
she had twisted a scarlet scarf with deep golden 
fringes ; and on her head was a sky-blue silk hand- 
kerchief, arranged to look something like a coiffe. 
Thus bedecked, she stood before the picture with 
many wavings of her slender hands, saying over and 
over again the same words in a soft, sweet tone. 

“My knight; my very own knight! Tender and 
true, tender and true, tender and true.” 

“ Miss Tracy!” the voice called again. 

7 


8 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“My knight,” the child went on, “ I love you; 
I shall always love you. But — you died. ” 

“ Miss Tracy !” 

The voice was close to the door now ; so close that 
it forced itself upon the child’s ears, and rudely 
broke into her dream. Instantly a change passed 
over the pensive little face, swift as a lightning flash, 
and Tracy turned all at once into a small raging 
vixen. When Barbara, flushed and spent with toil- 
ing up long flights of stairs, came panting into the 
room, she was confronted by a little fury, perform- 
ing a fantastic war-dance, and breathing out threaten- 
ings that were appalling to hear. 

“Do hush now, Miss Tracy,” said the young 
woman, pressing her hand on her side.. “ It’s quite 
awful to hear you going on. All my breath is gone, 
and I — good gracious, miss, you’ve been at your 
sister’s drawers! That’s her best scarf, all twisted 
up; and that’s her blue handkerchief on your wicked 
little head! Take ’em off at once, directly, before 
more harm comes of it. ” 

With that lightning swiftness which characterized 
all her movements, Tracy tore off scarf and head- 
gear, and flung them at Barbara with all her force. 
The maid, finding herself stung smartly in the face, 
waxed wrathful. 

“ I believe you’re possessed, Miss Tracy, that I 
do!” she cried. “It’s for no good that you come 
Up here, all by yourself, talking and murmuring to 
them that no one can see. It makes me creep all 
over when I listen to you. And to go and dress 
yourself up, and get a-play-acting when no one’s 
looking on, is a sort of thing which only a witch 
would do.” 

“ How dare you call me a witch?” demanded 
Tracy, with a new burst of fury. “ Supposing I 
were to make a waxen image of you, and stick it full 
of pins,” she added, making little stabs in the air, 
and tossing about her arms with a quaint and sin- 


TRACY’S KNIGHT. 


9 


gular grace which fascinated even the prosaic mind 
of the housemaid. 

“ If your temper wasn’t so awful, it would be quite 
pretty to see you in your tantrums, miss,” she said 
meditatively. 

But, swift as thought, Tracy changed again. The 
elfish dancer had fled, and in her stead came a deli- 
cate princess, drawing up her slight figure to its full 
height, and speaking in the calm, level accents of 
one accustomed to be obeyed. 

“Go downstairs, Barbara,” said this regal young 
person ; and Barbara went at once. 

Left to herself, Tracy went back again to the pic- 
ture, and recommenced her soft murmuring in a 
sorrowful tone. 

“My knight,” she said, “I never talk to any one 
save you; and sometimes I think that your spirit 
hears. It was wrong to fly into a temper because 
that silly woman provoked me. ‘ What does she know 
about you and me, and all that we have to say to 
each other? What does any one know? It’s all a 
dream, dear, and you’ll never come out of the pic- 
ture and stand before me a real person, will you? 
You died ever so long ago, and only common men 
are left in the world.” 

She turned away with a deep sigh, and went slowly 
down the darkening stairs, a shadowy little figure 
gliding among the shadows of the quiet house. 

It had been raining nearly all day, but at evening 
time it was light, and there were touches of faint 
glory in the west. A thin mist hung over the old 
town, and towers and spires, wrapped in its folds, 
looked stately and tall, and seemed to belong to a 
city of dreams. Tracy paused at a narrow window 
on the landing, and thought of the picture upstairs — 
that picture which was so often in her mind when 
it was not in her sight. Even in the last glow of 
the autumn sunset she could see the form of her 
dying knight, his deep eyes looking up to the face 


IO THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

of the fair queen who bent over him. Tracy did 
not care much about the queen, and her romantic 
history of loves and woes; all her interest was cen- 
tered in this man who had devoted himself with such 
unswerving loyalty to her cause. It was the tender- 
ness and truth and fidelity that had won the child’s 
heart, and made this idolized Douglas the hero of 
her young life. And perhaps it was the melancholy 
conviction that she should never meet him out of 
the realms of dreamland which overspread her face 
with such an earnest thoughtfulness, and gave her 
eyes their peculiar expression of pathos and seeking. 

Down in her prim drawing-room -Mrs. Taunton 
was sitting with her tea-tray before her, waiting for 
her young granddaughter. The room was lighted 
rather dimly by a single lamp with a rose-colored 
shade, and its soft light made the apartment seem 
prettier than it really was. Tracy entered slowly, 
gliding in with noiseless step and drooping head; 
and her grandmother asked her anxiously if she were 
quite well. 

“Yes, quite well, thank you,” Tracy answered in 
a weary tone. “ Only very, very tired. ” 

“Tired! My dear child, what have you been do- 
ing to tire yourself?” 

“I haven’t tired m} T self, grandma; I never do. 
It’s life that tires me, that’s all. ” 

“The idea is too absurd,” said Mrs. Taunton, 
pouring out tea. “At twelve you have not borne 
the burden of life long enough to find it wearisome, 
Wait until you are four times twelve, and then you 
may say that life tires you indeed.” 

“Four times twelve,” repeated Tracy, taking a 
slice of cake from a silver basket, “ four times twelve 
are forty-eight. I don’t know my multiplication 
table very well, but I think that’s right. I hate 
figures! I hope I shan’t go on living, and multiply- 
ing twelve too many times; that would be simply 
awful, you know, grandma. ” 


tracy’s knight. 


ii 


“It is simply awful to hear you talk,” said Mrs. 
Taunton, setting down the teapot with a sigh. 
“Why are you not like other children of your age? 
When Laura was twelve she never made any of these 
extraordinary remarks. ” 

“ Do you really want me to be like Laura was?” 
inquired Tracy, raising her dark eyebrows. “I’m 
afraid that’s impossible, grandma. Laura must 
have been a commonplace little girl. I’d do any- 
thing to please you, but I can’t be commonplace.” 

“Laura was not as troublesome as you are,” re- 
plied Mrs. Taunton, sighing again. “ I always knew 
exactly what she would do and say. Now you are 
so different ; you are always doing and saying un- 
expected things. ” 

“ That’s why I’m so interesting,” said Tracy, with 
much self-satisfaction. “ The other day I heard Mr. 
Lazelle say, ‘What an interesting child Tracy is!”’ 

“Very foolish to let you hear him,” Mrs. Taunton 
said tartly. 

The door opened as the words escaped her lips, 
and Mr. Lazelle’s homely face* crowned with white 
hair, suddenly appeared in the room. 

There was a vein of kindly humor in Mr. La- 
zelle’s composition which endeared him to every one 
who knew him ; and there was no one who did not 
know him in Femgate. He had been rector there 
for thirty years; and every child in the old town 
was familiar with that venerable face and portly fig- 
ure, and had felt the kind touch of his hand upon 
its head. The rector loved children, and had the 
gift of making friends of them. When he called 
them, they came; when he spoke, they listened; 
they could not have told why they liked him (chil- 
dren, as a rule, are not fond of giving reasons) ; but 
it was certain that he could win their confidence 
without an effort ; and, having won it, he never lost 
it. At the sight of him Tracy brightened visibly. 
He was a staunch ally of hers; one of the few per- 


12 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


sons who understood the seeming contradictions of 
her complex nature, and made excuses for those 
peculiarities which grandma and Laura found so 
trying. She almost hoped that he had overheard 
Mrs. Taunton’s hasty words, and was mischievously 
pleased with the old lady’s look of confusion. But 
Mr. Lazelle, if he had heard them, did not mind 
them in the least. He was a sweet-tempered man, 
perfectly aware that he had secured the affection of 
his people, and quite untroubled by the ordinary lit- 
tle worries of a parson’s life. This placidity was 
due, perhaps, to the fact that he was free from cler- 
ical vanity. It did not hurt him to hear other men’s 
sermons praised, for he always thought and spoke 
of himself as a poor preacher ; it did not exasperate 
him when his brethren were promoted to bishoprics 
and deaneries, for he had never coveted preferment. 
He took life simply, and lived cheerfully and soberly, 
thus escaping a good many of its burdens and per- 
plexities. 

“ I am always sure of a seat at your tea-table,” he 
said, sinking down comfortably into an arm-chair by 
Mrs. Taunton’s side. “ How is it that you contrive 
to impart an old-world flavor to your tea? When 
I drink it I am carried back to the days of funny 
short waists and piled-up hair.” 

“The china gives the flavor,” Tracy assured him 
gravely. “I’m so used to it now, that I forget to 
notice it. Don’t you know how very old these cups 
are, Mr. Lazelle? Grandma’s grandmother used 
them on her wedding day; they were set out in an 
arbor between the clipped yews, and everybody 
said that they were ‘vastly pretty.’ Great-great- 
great-graridmother was a ‘monstrous fine girl, ’ and 
had plenty of beaux. I made a sketch of her the 
other day. ” 

“There is no portrait of my grandmother,” Mrs. 
Taunton explained; “Tracy is making believe, as 
usual.” 


tracy’s knight. 


13 


“ It was a fancy portrait, of course,” said the rec- 
tor, with an indulgent glance at the girl. “ I should 
like to see it. Tracy’s sketches are very good.” 

“But they never satisfy me,” Tracy exclaimed. 
“ I never can make the pictures match my fancies. 
The face in my mind isn’t a bit like the face that 
comes out on the paper. That’s my trouble always. ” 

“A very old trouble,” said the rector. “You 
began to strive after the ideal early in life, Tracy. 
I wonder if you will give up the quest later on, and 
be satisfied with the best that you can get?” 

She shook her head. 

“I’m not easily satisfied, Mr. Lazelle. Grandma 
wGuld like me better if I was. I am only twelve, 
I know ; but if I lived to be twelve times twelve, I 
should never find anything so good as the things I’ve 
dreamed of. No man that I shall ever see will be 
worth loving,” added Tracy with a solemn air of 
conviction. Mrs. Taunton’s cap-ribbons quivered; 
she was seriously annoyed. The rector, highly 
amused, sank back in his chair and watched the lit- 
tle speaker. 

“Go on, Tracy,” he said. “Tell us why all the 
men will seem so worthless? Have you found a 
hero in your dreams?” 

“I’ve found him in a picture,” Tracy answered, 
very gravely. “A picture that grandma didn’t care 
for, and hung up in the spare room out of sight. ” 

“ It is so dismal, ” Mrs. Taunton interposed ; 
“ Mary Stuart mourning over the dying Douglas 
after the battle of Langside. I never could endure 
pictures of that kind. They suggest such melan- 
choly thoughts, don’t they, Mr. Lazelle? They re- 
mind one that a good deal of life’s best blood has 
been wasted, and always will be wasted. I don’t 
like to look at a dying hero.” 

“ Why, grandma, you wouldn’t have had him live?” 
Tracy cried. “That would have spoiled every- 
thing. ” 


i4 


THROUGH PA*N TO PEACE. 


“Oh, child, how absurdly romantic you are! 
Why should he not have lived, and fought after- 
ward in a better cause?” Mrs. Taunton demanded. 

The rector, watching Tracy intently, saw that she 
was struggling with that difficulty of expression 
which so often silences the young, and gives many 
a seeming triumph to their elders. He came to 
her assistance, speaking in a quiet voice. 

“ A French writer has told us that ‘there is some- 
thing wanting to the perfect life which does not 
finish on the field of battle, the scaffold, or in prison. ’ 
This is the feeling that Tracy wants to put into 
words,” he said. “As you were saying, Mrs. Taun- 
ton, a good deal of life’s best blood is wasted — ap- 
parently wasted. A true knight breaks many lances, 
and some of them are sure to be broken in a wrong 
cause.” 

“ You don’t think that the good lance dignifies the 
wrong cause, do you?” Mrs. Taunton asked. 

“ No; if a cause is poor, it can’t be helped by any 
borrowed dignity. But a man’s sincerity and purity 
may atone individually for his mistakes.” 

“Well,” said the old lady, filling his cup again, 
“ I can’t talk as well as you do; and if I could, Tracy 
wouldn’t listen to me. But I don’t want her to 
grow up with silly notions in her head, prepared to 
undervalue any sensible man she meets, because he 
is not a bit like that knight of hers. I wish you 
would take her in hand, Mr. Lazelle.” 

He laughed a little at grandma’s earnestness. 
Tracy sat silent, watching him with expectant eyes. 

“In my calling,” he said, after a pause, “I have 
met a great many knights; but not one of them has 
ever drawn a sword. A hundred times I have wished 
that I was a great poet who could put their noble 
deeds into grand verse, and give them to the world. 
You will lose sight of a good deal of heroism, Tracy, 
if you only look for it in the past. The true knightly 
spirit is transmitted from age to age : it never dies 


tracy’s knight. 


T 5 


out. Did you think it was only a Douglas who could 
be tender and true? My child, there is many a 
working-man who has the best of claims to that old 
motto. Do not under-estimate the manhood of to- 
day because it is not clad in armor; don’t under-rate 
the humanity around you. Touch it, let your own 
soul blend with it, and you will discover its nobility 
for yourself.” 

It was not often that Mr. Lazelle made a long 
speech. Having said what was required of him, he 
sought an excuse to go, and turned to Mrs. Taunton 
to speak about a sick choir-boy. Then he went his 
way ; and the old woman and the little girl sat to- 
gether in silence. 

Presently, the door opened again, and some one 
came in hurriedly, with a sweep and a rush. She 
wore an ample cloak which floated about her, and 
enveloped a flower-stand in its folds, nearly over- 
turning grandma’s pet geranium. The rose-colored 
lamplight deepened the rose flush on her face, and 
showed that it was healthy and young. 

“How d^adfully quiet you are!” she said. “Is 
there any tea to be had? I have had a long drive 
alone, and I want to be revived. ” 


CHAPTER II. 


laura’s bridegroom. 

“Somewhere or other there must surely be 
The face not seen, the voice not heard, 

The heart that not yet — never yet — ah me ! 

Made ans^^r to my word. ” 

There was an air of triumph about Laura which 
Tracy saw at once ; and, not being by any means a 
saintly child, she resented her sister’s self-impor- 
tance. 

“ I should like to do something to take her down,” 
Tracy thought. “ Why does she come swaggering 
in like this? Ugh! how flushed her face is ! Some- 
body has been proposing to her, I suppose, and she 
is puffed up with vanity and gratification. That 
isn’t the right way to receive an offer. She ought 
to be pale and grave and calm. True love is such 
a solemn thing: it is for life and for death.” 

She lost herself in a waking dream, and forgot 
Laura of the flushed face altogether for a few sec- 
onds. But Laura had no mind to be forgotten on 
such an important occasion as this. She meant to 
make the most of her opportunity, and get as many 
congratulations and felicitations as she could. And 
then, too, she, in her turn, resented Tracy’s dreamy 
glance and general lack of interest in her doings. 
Who was Tracy, that she should give herself these 
airs of cold indifference? She burned to wake up 
something like envy in that listless-looking child, 
who seemed to gaze at her without seeing her at all. 

16 


laura’s bridegroom. 


i7 


“You don’t ask if I have any news to tell,” she 
said. “You seem quite dull, grandma, and Tracy 
looks as if she wanted fresh air. It was delightful 
to see the little Rodens: they all have cheeks like 
roses.” 

“And heads like turnips,” Tracy murmured lan- 
guidly. 

“ How rude you are, Tracy!” Laura’s roses deep- 
ened to an unbecoming tint. “ When I have been 
staying with really nice children I feel quite 
ashamed of my sister. ” 

“ So do I,” said Tracy, with a faint smile. 

“As if there is anything in me to be ashamed of! 
Grandma, will you allow me to be insulted?” Laura 
cried indignantly. 

“My dear, I think you began the attack,” Mrs. 
Taunton confessed. “ I am sorry that the Rodens 
have made you dissatisfied with your own relations.” 

The old lady was a staunch believer in the sacred- 
ness of family ties; moreover, she had a secret pref- 
erence for the strange, wayward child who provoked 
and fascinated her by turns, and was deeply offended 
with Laura for hinting at the superiority of the 
Rodens over a Taunton. But Laura was a girl who 
never knew how to withdraw gracefully from dan- 
gerous ground; and now, with her usual want of 
tact, she advanced instead of receding. 

“Well, really, grandma, the Rodens are always so 
bright and cheerful that one doesn’t care to leave 
them. And they introduce one to such nice people!” 

“ I hope they do. I hope, Laura, that all the peo- 
ple you meet at their house are desirable acquaint- 
ances.” 

This speech was too much for Miss Taunton in 
her excited state of mind. She had come in pre- 
pared to make a sensation, and be regarded as the 
heroine of the hour; and her grandmother’s remark 
was like a dash of cold water thrown suddenly into 
her face. Her mouth went down at the corners, her 


l8 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

handkerchief went up to her eyes, and she began to 
sob aloud. 

Child as she was, Tracy was well aware that the 
fountain of Laura’s tears did not lie very deep. 
There are tears that come from the surface of an 
excitable nature, and win a great deal more pity 
than they deserve. Laura was one of those women 
who weep copiously in public, and suffer little from 
the effects of their emotion. Yet Tracy, regarding 
her with a calm scrutiny, was suddenly roused to 
compassion, and began to take her part. Perhaps, 
too, the remembrance of a certain crumpled scarf 
and handkerchief, restored with hasty hands to 
Laura’s drawer, had something to do with her quick 
desire to console her sister. 

“We haven’t heard Laura’s news yet, grandma,” 
she said. “ Do tell us, Laura; I want to hear. We 
were half asleep when you came in, and we ought 
to be roused, you know.” 

“Oh, there’s n — nothing w — worth hearing,” 
Sobbed Laura, looking up with fiercely colored 
cheeks. “ It’s only that I’m— engaged, that’s all.” 

“Well, that’s worth hearing, isn’t it, grandma?” 
Tracy cried, with genuine satisfaction. “ I was afraid 
that he had only paid marked attention. Of course, 
I don’t know who the ‘he’ is, but 1 do hope he’s good 
enough to be my brother-in-law.” 

“And my grandson,” added grandma gravely. 
“Laura, you are only twenty. He ought to have 
spoken to me first.” 

“ He couldn’t help it,” answered Laura, firing up 
again, and forgetting to cry. “He was too much in 
love to wait. If he hadn’t spoken he would have 
exploded. You don’t understand him, grandma.” 

“No, I don’t understand explosives, my dear; 
they are not in my line at all. As yet you have 
only referred to him as ‘he. ’ May one ask what his 
name is?” 

“ Dawley — Frank Dawley.” 


laura’s bridegroom. 


19 


“ It’s an ugly name; it might almost as well have 
been Dawdle,” said Tracy. “Never mind, Laura; 
I don’t mean to be unkind. You will have a lovely 
wedding, and all Ferngate will turn out to see the 
show. I think I shall look nice as a bridesmaid 
with my dark hair flowing. I shall be pensive — yes, 
I will be pensive that day.” 

“You are always thinking about yourself,” ex- 
claimed the future bride, with just indignation. 
“ And this is the way in which my news is received! 
I’m glad Frank doesn’t know; I shall never tell him. 
He is so warm-hearted that — that he would say you 
were a couple of cold, unfeeling things. And so you 
are!” 

“And so we are!” echoed Tracy, like the chorus 
in a comic opera. “ Dear Laura, I’m so sorry. I see 
myself and grandma from your point of view, and I 
am convinced that we are brutes. Forgive us, and 
we’ll promise to receive Frank with open arms.” 

“Promise for yourself,” said grandma, leaning 
back in her chair with great dignity. “ Sit down, 
Tracy. You are only twelve, and your forward con- 
duct disgusts me. I am not a brute, but I have had 
a lover who afterward became my husband; and I 
know exactly what a courtship ought to be. This 
affair is all out of order. I always thought that no 
good would come of those visits to the Rodens.” 

“O grandma, you are not. going to break off the 
engagement!” cried Tracy in dismay. “ I was just 
picturing the wedding beautifully. It would be such 
a dreadful disappointment to Laura and me. And 
she may not get another lover if you send Mr. 
Dawdle — O Laura, I mean Dawley — away. Laura 
is so pink, you know; and some men prefer pale 
girls like me. My dear, dear grandma, I entreat 
you not to be stern. May Our Lady soften your 
hard heart!” 

Mrs. Taunton was never so near boxing her fa- 
vorite’s ears as when that irrepressible child knelt in 


20 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


a dramatic attitude by her side. The mixture of jest 
and earnest in Tracy’s manner was exasperating to 
her friends in their serious moments. She was 
never insincere, but it was impossible to tell where 
feeling ended and fun began. Steeped as she was 
in the pages of Scott, it was quite a common thing 
for her to express herself in language that might 
have befitted the Middle Ages ; and grandma, being 
a staunch Protestant, was horrified to hear her grand- 
child calling upon saints to defend her from imagi- 
nary dangers, and swearing by the Mass. 

“Get up, Tracy,” said the old lady pettishly. 
“ My head is quite confused. When I was young, 
girls always regarded a betrothal with the utmost 
seriousness. They did not come rushing into their 
homes with the announcement that they were en- 
gaged.” 

“No one could have been more serious than Laura, ” 
expostulated Tracy. “ She made her announcement 
with tears. What more do you require, grandma? 
There are times when you are fearfully exacting, you 
know. I’ll get up, of course, as you request me to 
do so ; but I shall continue my supplications. ” 

And she was as good as her word, never ceasing 
to wring her hands at grandma across the table, un- 
til Mrs. Taunton was maddened into shaking a lady- 
like fist in return. Laura, meanwhile, had recovered 
her composure, and was ready to assume an air of 
dignified defiance. 

“ Mr. Dawley is coming to talk to you to-morrow, 
grandma,” she said. “I hope you will be prepared 
to receive him as my future husband. You must 
know that I’m not to be turned against the man I 
love by a few hasty speeches. ” 

Here Tracy, who had been thrown into an ecstasy 
of amusement at the sight of grandma’s fist, became 
suddenly grave. Those words — “the man I love” — 
had a sobering influence over her wild spirit. Per- 
haps Frank Dawley was a real knight, tender and 


laura’s bridegroom. 


21 


true, ready to prove his royalty by dying, if needs 
be, at his lady’s feet. Anyhow, love was not a 
thing to be trifled with, she thought; and so she 
slipped noiselessly away out of the lamplighted room, 
and went to the narrow window on the landing to 
meditate, and look up at the stars. 

The mist had cleared away; one planet, large and 
luminous, hung like a lamp above the dark church- 
tower, and the old town seemed to be at rest in the 
stillness of the autumn evening. A low breeze was 
stirring softly in the thick ivy that wreathed the win- 
dow, and it came breathing into Tracy’s face like a 
sigh. She began to wonder where this wind had 
been wandering before it found her here. Had it 
been blowing across lonely fields, where once strong 
men like Douglas, had fought and died? What 
secrets it could whisper to ears that were opened to 
its soft revealings! Perhaps it had come straight 
from the spirit-world, charged with greetings from 
the souls at rest to those still toiling on the path of 
life. Tracy always encouraged thoughts like these. 
She liked to believe that the seen and the unseen are 
very near together. 

Left to themselves, Mrs. Taunton and her elder 
granddaughter speedily arrived at an understanding. 
Tracy’s well-meant attempts to promote peace had 
utterly failed ; but when she was gone, both felt that 
a disturbing influence had departed. Laura ex- 
plained that her Frank had three hundred a year 
and expectations, not to mention a cottage of re- 
spectable size, in which a couple with a modest in- 
come could live in lowly comfort. Grandma thought 
she might have done better, of course; and then ad- 
mitted to herself that Laura really was not a particu- 
larly attractive girl. Coming down from her stilts, 
she promised, graciously enough, to receive Mr. Daw- 
ley with all due courtesy and cordiality ; and if Laura 
really did think of being married soon — she would 
gladly give her all possible help and countenance. 


22 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


Mr. Dawley called on the next day, and sat in the 
rector’s favorite chair at the tea-table. Tracy 
honestly wanted to be very fond of him ; but none 
the less did she feel his total unlikeness to her ideal 
knight. In fact, it would be difficult to imagine any 
one less like a knight than Laura’s Frank. He was 
short, stout, and florid, and even more nervous than a 
man usually is in his unhappy circumstances. Of all 
the terrible ordeals of life, an introduction to the fam- 
ily circle of one’s future wife is, perhaps, the worst. 
But, oddly enough, it was Tracy who contrived to 
mitigate the sufferings of the new-comer; and she 
won his eternal gratitude by affording him some 
minutes of amusement and ease. She talked to him 
with all the grace and tact of a skilled woman of the 
world, deftly avoiding difficult subjects, lightly put- 
ting grandma into the background whenever the old 
lady advanced her old-fashioned notions, and care- 
fully including Laura in the conversation. Dawley 
thought he had never seen a happier home circle, and 
said so to his betrothed. 

“And, by George! that little sister of yours is 
charming,” he added warmly. “She’ll be turning 
no end of heads one of these days. Fellows like 
to be amused, you see; and she’s got such pretty 
ways.” 

“ Has she?” said Laura, in unaffected astonish- 
ment. “Why, Frank, I was afraid you wouldn’t 
like her. One never knows what she will be; she is 
five or six different persons in the course of one day. ” 

“Full of surprises, eh, like a pantomime? Well, 
that’s rather fun, you know.” 

“ Yes; only Tracy’s surprises are not always pleas- 
ant,” said Laura curtly. “But, anyhow, Frank, I’m 
glad that you have seen her at her best.” 

To do Tracy justice, it must be recorded of her 
that she continued to be at her best all through the 
period of Laura’s brief engagement. Her sister had 
never liked her so well before ; she developed such 


Laura’s bridegroom. 


23 


unexpected gifts in the needlework line, and gave 
really valuable suggestions about bonnets and gowns. 
If Laura fell into a difficulty concerning a bodice or 
a skirt, Tracy would retire to the spare room up- 
stairs, think over the matter alone, cover several 
sheets of paper with sketches of imaginary brides, 
and then come down radiant and full of useful 
ideas. 

“How the child improves!” grandma would say 
with proud satisfaction. “ I can see the results of 
my good training at last.” 

Mr. Lazelle listened to these remarks with a benign 
smile. He did not believe that grandma’s excellent 
training had done as much for Tracy as was supposed. 
The girl had grown up in a wild-flower way ; follow- 
ing out her own fancies, throwing out tendrils in all 
directions; clasping some things closely, and letting 
others go. She had, indeed, been left too much to 
her own devices. Mrs. Taunton was a woman of quiet 
tastes, given to sitting silently over needlework, 
and caring very little for society. She did not like 
the ceaseless noise and movement of children around 
her, and so Tracy had never had many playmates of 
her own age, and had been thrown back upon the 
company of dream companions. Miss Butler, the 
quiet daily governess, who came and went, had never 
really won the heart of her wayward pupil, although 
Tracy accorded her all due respect arid liking, and 
learned from her readily enough. 

It was a memorable day in the Taunton household 
when the wedding dresses came home. When 
Laura, blushing in white satin and tulle, had been 
sufficiently criticised and admired, Tracy arrayed 
herself in the bridesmaid’s costume in the spare room. 
There, in solitude, she posed before the picture of 
the knight, calling on him to look at these soft 
pale blue folds which invested her little figure with 
a new dignity. And then, as usual, she forgot her- 
self and her finery, and gave up her thoughts to this 


24 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


shadowy hero who reigned supreme over her dream 
of life. 

“ Will you never come to me, Douglas?” she asked. 
“ Are you waiting somewhere out in the world till 
I come? No matter where you are, nor how you are 
dressed, I shall know you! and I shall find you 
tender and true!” 

Laura’s wedding was a quiet affair, but it attracted 
quite a crowd of sight-seers, and the old parish 
church was filled from end to end. The bride, with 
her full face and figure, looked something like a pink 
peony seen through a gauzy mist; and the brides- 
maid, slender, graceful, and dark -haired, had the air 
of a captive princess whose thoughts were far away in 
some distant land of flowers and sunshine. Without 
her, the bridal would have been simply common- 
place. Her quaint, half-foreign charm imparted a 
touch of poetry to a prosaic scene. 

As Laura acknowledged afterward, Tracy really 
behaved well to the last. She did all the things 
that a little sister is supposed to do at a wedding, 
and did them with an inimitable grace. Frank, as 
red and dewy-faced a bridegroom as ever drank 
more champagne than was good for him, kissed his 
hand to her demonstratively as she stood at the 
gate of the court-yard to watch the departure of the 
wedded pair. They were not, by any means, a ro- 
mantic couple ; but, in years that followed, one pic- 
ture was always clearly imprinted on the memories 
of both. At any moment of their lives they could 
call up a vision of that slim figure in the pale blue 
dress, waving a dainty hand as she stood in the De- 
cember sunshine, her soft hair blown about her like 
a dark cloud. 

The carriage drove away; the hall door closed, 
and Tracy went back to her dreams. 


CHAPTER III. 


WATER-LILIES. 

“ Through light and shadow thou dost range 
Sudden glances, sweet and strange ; 

Delicious spites and darling angers, 

And airy forms of flitting change.” 

— Tennyson. 

“When a woman is twenty-one,” said Tracy in a 
serious voice, “ it is good for her to take a solitary 
walk, and muse over all her shortcomings.” 

“ I hope the walk won’t be too long.” Mrs. Taun- 
ton looked up from her knitting with a shade of anx- 
iety on her placid old face. “You are not very 
strong, Tracy. ” 

“ Stronger than most people,” the girl answered. 
“ Much stronger than Laura, who always catches 
every new disease that is spoken of in her hearing.” 

“ Laura has never had anything the matter with 
her,” said grandma impatiently. “ It is very absurd 
to see such a big, rosy creature pretending to have 
delicate lungs and a weak heart. But, Tracy, you 
are too fragile.” 

“Not at all, grandma, ” replied Tracy cheerfully. 
“ There is enough body to hold my spirit, and that 
is all that a reasonable person requires. Now I 
must be off, for I want to get to Woodcourt.” 

“ To Woodcourt?” Mrs. Taunton repeated. “ Have 
you heard that the new baronet is coming home? 
Barbara told me so. ” 

“ Barbara makes up stories to amuse you, grandma. 
You know that none of the Montjoys have lived 
2 5 


2 6 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


there for more than twenty years,” said Tracy, but- 
toning her gloves. “No; they will leave Woodcourt 
to its silence and desolation. The palace of the 
Sleeping Princess was scarcely less disturbed. It 
always soothes me to go and look at the dreamy old 
place.” 

It was early in a June afternoon when Tracy Taun- 
ton, now a woman grown, set out upon this birthday 
walk of hers. She went swiftly through the High 
Street of the old town, never pausing to look into 
a shop-window, for even the bookseller’s establish- 
ment failed to win more than a passing glance. Only 
once did she stop just in front of the west door of 
the old church. A little child, its golden head 
uncovered, was dancing all by itself in the shadow 
of the Gothic porch, moving its small pattering feet 
to the music of its pretty treble voice. Tracy lin- 
gered and looked with a smile on her lips — a smile 
that transfigured her grave young face, and revealed 
an unexpected dimple which came and vanished in 
an instant. Then she went on out of the street, 
beyond the suburban cottages and gardens, and across 
a flowery meadow where the narrow footpath wound 
like a ribbon through the long grass. 

At last the path straggled away from the meadow, 
and lost itself on the short, sweet turf of a wide com- 
mon. Here the fragrant air came sweeping down 
from those low hill-ranges which looked so faint and 
far away; and Tracy stood still to feel the wind’s 
kiss. Life seemed to her an ineffable gift at that 
moment. It was a good thing to be twenty-one, 
and live in a world where there were sweet, wan- 
dering breezes ; great beds of uncultivated flowers, 
spreading out a carpet of purple and gold ; and hills 
whose calm outlines suggested thoughts of fairer 
things beyond. Just then she was saying good-by 
to analysis, and feeling only that life was worth 
living. A bird was singing high up in the blue; 
a pile of snowy clouds hung motionless over Sir 


WATER-LILIES. 


27 


Alfred Montjoy’s woods: above, ^s well as below, 
this summer world was filled with joy and peace. 

There was a gypsy encampment on the skirt of the 
woods ; and Tracy, as she passed ft, looked smilingly 
at a brown-faced boy at play upon the grass. Then 
she went on, plunging fearlessly into the deep 
shadows, and emerging at length into a glade where 
there was a view which had long been dear to her 
eyes. From this spot she could see the old Tudor 
mansion, its many windows twinkling in the sun, 
and its far-reaching gardens bathed in the glory of 
the June day. When you came nearer you could 
perceive certain traces of neglect about the silent 
place, but its decay was beautiful. Mosses faded in 
the sunshine; wild poppies made a gaudy show 
among the crumbling stones; over every bit of an- 
cient wall hung an entanglement of many-tinted 
foliage. Not a single human being was in sight; no 
footsteps echoed on the gray flags of the long terrace ; 
no hands gathered the roses piled in pink and creamy 
masses over the portal; no eyes watched the lovely 
shades that shone and shifted on the peacock’s purple 
breast. It always seemed to Tracy as if the fairies 
of long ago had flitted back here again, and (for 
some elfish reason unrevealed to man) had laid this 
sleepy Woodcourt under a potent spell. 

If Mrs. Taunton had known that her grandchild 
meant to celebrate her one-and-twentieth birthday 
by committing a crime, there would have been an 
end of her peace. But although she had seen the 
girl setting off with a large rush basket on her arm, 
she had no suspicions of the dreadful truth. A good 
deal of the old wilful spirit lurked in Tracy still, 
and she rather liked the thought of stealing some- 
thing. Moreover, she was an artist ; and all things 
are fair in art, as in love or war. 

For days and days she had been haunted by a vision 
of the cool, dark lake at Woodcourt, with the lily- 
cups floating on its lazy bosom. As Shawondasee 


28 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


pined for the prairie dandelion, so did Tracy long 
for these water-lilies; but she had cunningly con- 
cealed her intentions from the household at home. 
They all knew that she was in the habit of wander- 
ing away to Woodcourt in summer-time; but no one 
guessed that she had found out a gap in a certain 
bit of mouldering wall, and had already effected a 
stealthy entrance into the silent old gardens more 
than once. Barbara would have betrayed the secret 
to Mrs. Taunton if Tracy had confided in her; but 
the young lady’s childish knowledge of Barbara had 
made her discreet; and not even Mr. Lazelle would 
have believed his favorite capable of the guilty deed 
which she had come out to do this day. 

“At last I shall know what stealing feels like,” 
thought Tracy, trampling valiantly through a maze 
of dog-roses and hazel boughs, and pausing in 
triumph at that broken bit of masonry which not one 
of the Montjoy’s retainers had ever thought it worth 
his while to mend. “ At last I shall do something 
which will brand me with the name of felon. Oh, 
how sweet it is here! They must be a foolish race 
— those Montjoys — to neglect such a place.” 

She had come, by a crooked path, to the margin 
of the still water, clear golden-brown in the after- 
noon sun. A little way from the brink grew a great 
cluster of turquoise forget-me-nots, and the tall iris 
reared its lovely purple head among the spear-like 
rushes; but the lilies were farther out on the pool, 
There they lay in calm summer majesty, ivory 
chalices and big bronze buds, looking fairer even 
than Tracy had seen them in her dreams. How she 
wanted them ! How impossible it would be to go 
back without them ! 

No sign of humanity was anywhere to be seen. 
She walked fearlessly now along the water’s edge, 
looking with covetous eyes on the treasures that lay 
beyond her reach. All the best seemed to be resting 
on a vast carpet of broad leaves, close to a little 


WATER-LILIES. 


29 


island, where the russet walls and thatched roof of a 
hut could be distinguished through gaps in the dense 
foliage. A sedgy odor prevailed, mingled with the 
peculiar patchouli scent of rotting leaves and reeds ; 
but now and again came a breath from the syringas 
and roses. Tracy strolled on, and then suddenly 
came to a full stop with a little cry of delight. 

A small boat of very ancient aspect lay close under 
the shade of some dipping willow boughs. She 
stepped down carefully, holding fast to the trunk of 
the friendly willow, saw that it held a couple of 
decaying oars, and instantly decided that Providence, 
or some kind kelpie, had provided it for her special 
use. Miss Taunton was a person who acted on the 
spur of impulse. Without a moment’s hesitation she 
set her dainty foot in this frail bark, found that it 
did not crumble into dust as might have been ex- 
pected, and then seated herself, and took the rotten 
old oars in her hands. Just a few strokes out to 
that carpet of leaves, and back again. A child could 
do as much as this without the slightest danger! 

The lily madness seemed to grow upon her as she 
pulled away from shore. She would not leave the. 
lake till her rush basket was as full as it would hold; 
she would even make a second expedition to-morrow. 

Nothing could be easier or safer than crime under 
such favorable circumstances. And what a delicious 
wickedness it was ! Gliding across this still water, 
you felt as if you had discovered the Lotus-eater’s 
paradise ; the quietness was so intense, and the warm 
air was so heavily laden with summer scents, that 
the realities of daily life seemed faint and far away. 
And then, too, the coloring of the scene was beauti- 
ful to artistic eyes ; an endless variety of soft green 
shades, touches of emerald thrown in to brighten the 
darker foliage; deep shadows of olive-brown; the 
heavenly blue of forget-me-nots; the creamy white 
of elder-blossoms. It was a picture to dream over 
in days to come. 


30 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


But what was this? She became aware that some- 
thing cold was crawling all over her feet; and a 
shivery dread came creeping up to her heart, almost 
' stopping its happy throbs. She was here, quite alone 
upon this silent lake, between the island and the 
shore; and the miserable old boat was fast filling 
with water. 

“ What is the good of screaming?” She asked 
herself the question with the quietness of utter 
despair. There was no one near enough to hear the 
loudest cry that she could raise. All around the 
birds kept up their summer melody, and insects 
buzzed and hummed a sleepy tune; but a human 
voice would have been a sweeter sound. It was all 
her own fault, of course ; she had wilfully come to 
meet her doom in these romantic solitudes, and it 
was more than likely that grandma would never 
succeed in recovering her body. Poor grandma! 
How placid she had looked, settling herself on the 
couch for her afternoon doze ! 

Then she began to wonder how long one would be 
in drowning? This cool brown water, with its float- 
ing flowers, was dreadful in its beauty now. What- 
secrets were hiding in those unfathomed depths. 
Shadowy forms seemed to glide in and out among 
the rushes on the banks; in a vague way she felt 
that they were only phantoms, but she must cry to 
them for aid. One shriek, and she was sinking 
down, down, and clutching vainly at the broad lily 
leaves. And then came a great, overwhelming dark- 
ness, and ended all. 


CHAPTER IV. 


RESCUED. 

“As a twig trembles which a bird 

Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, 

So is my memory thrilled and stirred : 

I only know she came and went. ” 

— Lowell. 

The return to consciousness after fainting for the 
first time is a wonderful moment. Tracy, opening 
her eyes at last, could .scarcely believe that she had 
awakened in the old familiar every-day world. She 
was cold, very cold ; and some one was bending over 
her, rubbing her chill hands, but she lay silently on 
the wet grass, lost in the endeavor to recover the 
link which had snapped, the link that bound her to 
common life. Still feeling after her missing memory, 
she found herself lifted up, and then a cup was held 
to her lips. 

“You must drink this,” said a clear, imperious 
voice. 

Instinctively she obeyed the command, and was 
revived, the full power of remembrance came back, 
and strength increased as she moved, and drew in 
breaths of fresh air. Where was' she? Lying on 
the flowery bank of the little island, with the blue 
sky smiling overhead, and the birds singing their 
summer songs. The dear, pleasant old earth was 
still her dwelling-place ; it was her birthday, she was 
twenty-one; she had come to Woodcourt to steal 
water-lilies, and had nearly perished in the attempt. 

3i 


32 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


Some one had seen her drowning, and had jumped 
into the lake to save her. 

“ I can move now, ” she said, in a tone which sounded 
absurdly meek and small. 

“Not just yet,” he answered firmly. “In a min- 
ute or two.” 

Tracy shut her eyes again and reflected. 

She was feeling very wet and miserable, and as 
heartily disgusted with herself as it was possible for 
a proud young woman to be. By and by, this man, 
whoever he was, would expect her to account for her 
presence on the lake, and how could she reply to a 
series of embarrassing questions? He did not look 
like a keeper or a gardener, nor did he speak as 
either of those functionaries would have spoken. 
Probably he was some one employed by the Mont- 
joys to look round the old place, and see that it was 
not going utterly and entirely to decay. She opened 
her eyes once more, and this time she was steadfastly 
resolved to keep them open. 

“ I have to thank you for saving my life,” she said, 
in a voice that was more like her own, looking 
frankly at her preserver. 

Somewhere in a picture gallery she had once seen 
a portrait, painted in his youth, of Claverhouse of 
Dundee; and the face of this stranger, young, melan- 
choly, and proud, was the very prototype of his who 
ended a sanguinary career in the wild pass of Killie- 
crankie. It is, according to Hazlitt, a bad proof of 
a man’s character to refer to his face ; but that early 
picture of “ Dark John of the battles” does not, as 
some have fancied, give the lie to all the stories told 
of his barbarous cruelty. Study the countenance 
well, and you will see, in the calm hauteur of those 
features, the pride that defies heaven, and the indiffer- 
ence that despises hell, such a heaven and such a 
hell as men used to make for themselves in that wild 
time. 

With sudden swiftness the remembrance of that 


RESCUED. 


33 


face flashed upon Tracy as she raised her head and 
spoke her thanks. The young man bowed slightly, 
and the faintest gleam of amusement was visible in 
his melancholy eyes. 

“ Why did you get into that rotten old boat?” he 
asked, after a moment’s pause. “ It was a risky 
thing to do. The lake is pretty deep in some places, 
they tell me.” 

The moment for confession had come; there was 
nothing for it but to avow the truth. 

“ I wanted the water-lilies,” she admitted candidly. 
“ I wanted them so much that I crept into the grounds 
through a gap in the wall. Of course I know I de- 
serve to be punished. ” 

“ You are quite sufficiently punished, I should say,” 
he replied. “ Do you really feel strong enough to 
move now? My boat, at any rate, is water tight, 
and I will row you safely to the shore.” 

He led the way to a decayed little landing-stage, 
and she followed him, dripping as she was, down 
some steps that were slimy with green water-weeds. 
The lilies had no charm for her now; she looked at 
them with a shudder as he pulled away from them 
with long, strong strokes, and felt a thrill of un- 
speakable relief when she stood, once more, with 
tottering feet upon the bank. He glanced at her 
forlorn figure, with the wet folds of a pretty summer 
gown clinging to the delicate limbs, and thought of 
his first glimpse of her a little while ago. 

For a man who admired material charms only 
Tracy would not have possessed many attractions. 
She had the slender, flexible form and peculiar grace 
of movement which are very seldom found in English 
girls. Her hair, thick and soft, and rough with 
natural curliness, was almost jet-black. The com- 
plexion which accompanied this hair was white with 
an under-tint of ivory; and the eyes were of the 
darkest shade of gray, made darker still by the 
shadow of long black lashes. Delicate but irregular 


34 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


features, narrow cheeks, and soft, red lips, rather 
full, completed a face which was rarely touched 
with the rose of youth and health. Yet go where 
she would Tracy was never unnoticed. If you 
glanced at her, you always wanted to prolong the 
look. Something picturesque, something poetic and 
ethereal, gave her a subtle power which was not easy 
to define. 

“You must come indoors at once,” he said, notic- 
ing that she shivered. “ My housekeeper shall take 
care of you.” 

His housekeeper! In an instant the truth broke 
in upon her bewildered mind. It was the master of 
Woodcourt who had got a thorough wetting for her 
sake. She had come to steal his flowers, and he had 
returned good for evil, heaping coals of fire on her 
head in a way which covered her with confusion. 
He stood facing her with grave politeness, while 
little rills of water, trickling off them both, ran down 
into the grass at their feet. 

“Found you at last, Montjoy,” said a well-known 
voice. “ I’ve been hunting all over the grounds.” 

Tracy turned quickly with an exclamation of 
relief. And the rector, coming forward, took her 
clammy little hands into his. 

“My child,” he said, “this is a dreadful state of 
things. You must go into the hall, and I’ll start 
off to Mrs. Taunton. Don’t begin to talk; you can 
tell me how it happened afterward. ” 

And so it came to pass that Tracy found herself, a 
litlte later, sitting in a dim old chamber. It was 
quiet and sombre, hung with tapestry on which were 
depicted faded nymphs dancing heavily, while fat 
Cupids scattered roses. The windows, many-paned, 
admitted views of long gravel paths stretching out 
between ridges of green box, of beds of blazing 
scarlet and gold, of gray walls ivy-grown. A large 
oval. mirror, in a black oaken frame, reflected a 
flight figure,.. draped in the housekeeper’s . ample 


RESCUED. 


35 


dressing-gown ; a great mass of dark hair, beginning 
to dry, made a deep shadow about the delicate face, 
which looked pale and spiritual in the gloom. In 
the background there was a four-post bedstead on 
which several of the Montjoys had drawn their last 
breath ; and Tracy thought gratefully of her own 
little white bed at home. 

Too many impressions had been crowded into this 
golden afternoon, and they had left her restless in 
body and mind. She was not shivering now; all 
chilly sensations had passed away after, she had par- 
taken of hot tea; and she was sitting here alone, 
waiting with some impatience for Barbara to arrive 
with a fresh supply of clothing. Yet there was a 
charm about the antique room with its quaint hang- 
ings and time-worn furniture, and she had never 
been within these old walls before. 

“ If I had but come in a more dignified manner!” 
she said to herself. “ Grandma will feel that the 
Tauntons are humbled forever in the eyes of the 
Montjoys. Well, I have distinguished myself on 
my twenty-first birthday!” 

The room grew dimmer still. The shampooing, 
received from the housekeeper’s trusty hands, had 
taken effect, and Tracy felt a delicious drowsiness 
stealing over her. Presently she was fast asleep, 
and did not wake until Barbara, with a portmanteau, 
was ushered into the quiet chamber. 

“You’ve nearly killed your grandma, miss,” said 
the maid, tugging viciously at the straps. “ Being 
well stricken in years she can’t bear up under these 
awful shocks. And how are you, miss? Has in- 
flammation of the lungs set in?” 

A low rippling laugh answered her. Tracy sat up 
and shook back the cloud of thick, dark hair. 

“What a disagreeable person you are, Barbara!” 
she remarked affably. “You don’t possess an atom 
of that useful thing called tact. Faithfulness is 
your strong point, but then you are so unpleasantly 


3 6 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


faithful. It is impossible to like you, although I 
should be sorry to lose you.” 

“Ah, there are not many like me, miss,” said Bar- 
bara, conquering the last strap. 

“ I hope not. It would be too dreadful if the world 
were peopled with Barbaras. What clothes have you 
brought? My gray cashmere; ah, it was grandma 
who thought of that! The old darling has excellent 
taste,” said Tracy, rising with a well-contented 
air. 

The rector had come back from Ferngate with 
Barbara, and was talking to Sir Alfred in the draw- 
ing-room. This was a room which had been modern- 
ized to a certain extent; but the effect produced by 
everyday couches and chairs was not perfectly satis- 
factory. From the ceiling, a company of flying 
nymphs and reeling fauns looked down contemptu- 
ously upon the prosaic tables and lounges which had 
nothing to do with their airy, flowery realm. Into 
this room, which always had a certain air of cheer- 
lessness, came an exquisitely dainty figure in a pale 
gray gown, very soft in material and simply made. 
On the dark hair was a little bonnet of cream-colored 
lace — a mere trifle, set off by a bit of scarlet gera- 
nium. 

“ Have I kept you waiting too long, Mr. Lazelle?” 
she asked, as she buttoned a tan glove. “You know 
I cannot go home without you. I really don’t feel 
strong enough to bear the brunt of grandma’s anger 
alone.” 

“ You shall not give Sir Alfred a wrong impres- 
sion of my old friend,” said the rector reprovingly. 
“ Grandma won’t be half severe enough. Think of 
the trouble you have caused, and be humble and 
penitent. ” 

vShe lifted up her face, and her deep gray eyes 
rested on Sir Alfred with a pretty pleading look of 
apology. 

“ I am so very sorry that I tried to steal your lilies, ” 


RESCUED. 


37 


she said in a soft, level voice. “ It was so good of 
you not to let me be drowned. My grandmother 
will thank you a great deal better than I can. ” 

She gave him her hand, with a smile both gentle 
and bright. And then the rector went out with her 
to the fly that was waiting, and Sir Alfred was left 
alone in his cheerless drawing-room. 

For some minutes after they were gone he still 
remained standing by the window, just where he 
had stood when Tracy came in. The room seemed 
strangely empty and chill ; the gay dancers on the 
ceiling were a set of rollicking idiots ; the numerous 
mirrors reflected his melancholy face with torment- 
ing frequency. At three-and-twenty Alfred Mont- 
joy had little taste for solitude, and he was by no 
means delighted with his ancestral hall. 

He had come to see that Woodcourt was ready for 
his mother, who was to be his future companion in 
the old house. His father had been an invalid for 
years, moving from one health resort to another until 
his wanderings ended in a German town, and the 
widow and her son made up their minds to go home 
at last. Everybody said that the young baronet 
ought to live at the old place; he, himself, acknowl- 
edged that it was the right thing to do. But he had 
only dim recollections of Woodcourt, and was not 
prepared for its general air of desolation and decay. 
His first walk through the grounds gave him a fit 
of depression which lasted for three days. It would 
never be possible, he thought, to take any interest 
in such surroundings as these. He had grown 
accustomed to the gay panorama of a travelling 
life; he had seen all that was to be seen abroad, and 
had followed his own devices, as a young man with 
a sick father and a mild tutor is pretty sure to do. 
The late baronet had not inspired his son with very 
strong affection. Alfred had become so thoroughly 
used to the sight of Sir Robert in his invalid chair, 
and so bored with the daily recital of his various 


38 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

ailments that he had lost the sense of the man’s real 
sufferings. 

Alfred Montjoy was one who ought to have been 
born poor, and made to work hard. There was a 
good deal of force in him which might have been 
directed into useful channels ; but there were no wise 
directors around him. What might have been power 
had degenerated, and was merely passion ; his strong 
will, never opposed, had become simply a stubborn 
determination to please himself at all cost. His 
only chance of going right was to love some woman 
who should guide him; or, at least, teach him that 
the highest prizes of life are never won by the selfish. 
Unfortunately, his mother, although she granted all 
his wishes, had not seriously tried to teach him 
anything. 

He had seen plenty of beautiful women, of course ; 
and his rambling life had given opportunities for 
free intercourse with all sorts of people. Lady 
Montjoy was exclusive; but she was not above mak- 
ing use of her pretty girl-friends if they would come 
and sit with her sick husband, and relieve the tedium 
of his days and her own. She had never deemed 
any of these girls worthy of her son, and had been 
on the watch for any attempts, on their part, to 
spread snares. But Alfred, gay, unsettled, and very 
well amused, had not yet given her a really serious 
cause for uneasiness. 

The melancholy expression, which added, as wo- 
men said, so greatly to the beauty of his face, had 
come there very early in boyhood. Perhaps it arose 
from the weariness which always waits on those 
unhappy persons who get every desire gratified. 
Perhaps it was inherited from ancestors who had 
found that “ all was vanity.” Anyway, it invested 
Alfred Montjoy with a charm which better men 
lacked, and made one remember a face which might 
otherwise have been forgotten 

When he found himself standing alone in the 


RESCUED. 


39 


drawing-room after the departure of his guests, he 
was surprised at the vivid picture which remained 
in his mind. He saw Tracy, just as he had first 
beheld her, seated in the crazy boat; but that vision 
soon faded, and gave place to the slight, rounded 
figure in the gray dress, with its air of quiet confi- 
dence and distinction. A man who had gone moon- 
ing about an old place alone for days might be ex- 
pected to grow sentimental. Sir Alfred Montjoy 
was not given to sentiment, as a rule, nor to self- 
analysis; but it is certain that he began to ask him- 
self, then and there, what it was in Miss Taunton 
which made him unreasonably anxious to see her 
again ? 

To while away the time till dinner, he sauntered 
out into the grounds again, and some mysterious 
impulse drew his feet to the margin of the lake. The 
first sweet breath of evening came creeping across 
the sheet of still water as he stood there, looking out 
at the lilies; and the delicate lights and shadows 
were as beautiful as a dream. Quite suddenly it 
flashed into his mind that it might be possible to 
make Woodcourt endurable after all; the place 
wanted a great deal of brightening up, it was true; 
but there were spots here and there which ought not 
to be touched, and this was one of them. 

“ It shall be left,” he thought, “just as it is.” 


CHAPTER V. 


BALMY DAYS. 

“O June, O June, that we desired so; 

Wilt thou not make us happy on this day? 

Across the river thy soft breezes blow, 

Sweet with the scent of bean-fields far away. ” 

— W. Morris. 

“ My entrance, ” Tracy confessed, “ was not all that 
pould be desired. But it cannot be denied, grandma, 
that I made a dignified exit. It was so thoughtful 
pf you to send the gray cashmere.” 

“ Think of the impression which you must have 
produced on the servants,” said grandma dismally. 

“ There were very few servants to be seen. But, 
trust me, when I assure you that my appearance in 
the cashmere effaced all previous impressions. I 
have always realized intensely the importance of 
dress and the choice of color in dress. Gray is, 
calm and soft and dove-like; it imparts a Quakerish 
air fa the wearer and makes it difficult to believe 
that she could descend to frivolity. If I wanted to, 
pose as a sort of earthly angel, I should dress in 
gray.” 

“Ypur posfng pame fop late,’’ 1 remarked Mrs. 
^aunfon, with a’ scornful smile. “Yards of dove- 
colored cashmere will not blind Sir Alfred’s eyes to 
the fact that you first appeared at Woodcourt in the 
character of a thief. The thought is unbearable.” 

“You make too much of my little sins, grandma,” 
complained Tracy, pouting. 

“No, I don’t,” Mrs. Taunton answered. “Ask 
40 


BALMY DAYS. 


41 


Mr. Lazelle what he thinks. This time he does not 
excuse you. ” 

“ Oh, if Mr. Lazelle turns against me, I am lost in- 
deed!” cried Tracy, rising from her seat at the break- 
fast-table with a despairing gesture. “ Life is no 
longer worth living. The verdict of society is harsh 
and cruel. The joy of youth has faded like a dream. 
My one dark hour — my first and only deviation from 
the path of rectitude — has blotted out the sunshine 
of existence. It is a pity that somebody doesn’t 
write a tract about me, and utilize me as a public 
warning.” She wrung her hands gracefully, and 
then paused and turned slowly round to see the full 
effect of her words. Mrs. Taunton tried not to laugh, 
then gave way against her will. 

“You are always acting, Tracy,” she said. But 
suddenly she fejt a trifle uncomfortable, and won- 
dered if there was anything real hidden behind 
these pretty little absurdities. Tracy w r as always 
provoking, always charming, and always inscru- 
table. 

“ If Mr. Lazelle has given me up ” the girl be« 

gan, and stopped short. Barbara had come in 
carrying a large basket with an important air. 

“ Sir Alfred Montjoy’s compliments, miss, and he 
has sent you some water-lilies. And he desires to 
know how you are to-day.” 

A faint color tinged Tracy’s pale cheeks, Mrs, 
Taunton saw a fleeting look of triumph pass across 
her face, and then it was calm again. 

She turned to grandma when Barbara had shut the 
door, and asked, in a very quiet voice, if she cared to 
look at the lilies, 

“ I am going to take them away upstairs, and make 
a study of them, ” she added. “ This morning I mean 
to work very hard, I assure you.” 

She went away with her flowers, and her grand- 
mother sat and mused. Was it possible that Tracy’s 
mad freak was to produce results of which she had 


42 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


never dreamed? All that Mr. Lazelle could tell 
about the young baronet had been already told. 
The rector had known Sir Robert at Oxford, and 
they had renewed the acquaintance when they met 
abroad, getting intimate enough for the invalid to 
consult the clergyman as to the future of his son. 
Mr. Lazelle had advised that Alfred should be a 
soldier; but the lad had no liking for discipline, 
and declared his intention of going home “ one of _ 
these days ” to become a model landlord. Lady 
Montjoy, too, was fond of painting fancy pictures of 
a renovated Woodcourt, and often spoke of her 
ceaseless longing for a true old English home. 

Her dream was about to be realized at last ; but 
what would she say if Sir Alfred should be in haste 
to present her with a daughter-in-law? No one had 
ever suspected Mrs. Taunton of possessing extra- 
ordinary powers of imagination; yet it is certain 
that fancy was running away with her this morning. 
Her breakfast-room, always exquisitely cool and 
fresh in summer, overlooked a bright little square 
of garden and a bit of red-brick wall, covered thickly 
with Virginia creeper and climbing roses; all the 
flowers that she had watched over with care and 
pride were in the full glory of their June perfection, 
but grandma’s thoughts were far away from their 
home-like sweetness. 

If — if — if Sir Alfred had fallen under the spell of 
that curious witchery which Tracy could exert at 
will ! Stranger things had happened, and were 
happening every day; and, with Mr. Lazelle as a 
staunch ally, the Tauntons might hope to overcome 
any of Lady Montjoy’s little objections. Naturally 
she would look higher for her son ; but Tracy was 
a lady, and she might think herself fortunate in 
getting a daughter-in-law who was of good birth, 
and graceful and refined. Nowadays, when young 
men laid their titles at the feet of dancers and music- 
hall belles, it was a good thing for a mother when 


BALMY DAYS. 


43 


her lad brought home a well-brought-up young 
gentlewoman as a wife. 

While the bees hummed over the flowers, and 
grandma dreamed her tranquil little dreams, Tracy 
sat at her easel upstairs, and painted the water-lilies. 

She was in the old room in which she had been 
wont to talk to herself and her shadowy companions 
years ago. It was a pretty room now, but its pretti- 
ness was not the result of luxury, and all its adorn- 
ments were evidently the outcome of the fancies 
and devices of the girl who sat in it. Here and 
there were brightly colored jars and pots of grow- 
ing fern ; unframed pictures — most of them studies 
of heads and small figures— filled up the spaces be- 
tween the book-shelves; and above the draped chim- 
ney-piece hung the engraving of the dying knight 
who had been the hero of Tracy’s childhood. She 
had traced his motto in Old English characters on 
the plain oak frame, and the words were always be- 
fore her eyes — “Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.” 
Even now, when she looked up from the water- 
lilies which would soon bloom afresh on canvas, her 
glance instinctively sought his face. It was essen- 
tially a manly face, dark, strong, and calm, with 
the supreme peace that comes of finished warfare ; 
and as Tracy gazed on it she thought of another face 
seen only yesterday. The other was more perfect 
in feature, younger and sadder, a countenance that 
had awakened in the girl’s heart that slumbering 
compassion which is, in some women, the beginning 
of first love. 

“Mr. Lazelle said that Sir Alfred had been too 
much indulged,” she thought. “I think that is a 
little hard; to me he looks as if he had always 
wanted something which no one gave. Perhaps his 
mother did not understand him ; perhaps she is a 
cold woman. One cannot look at that face of his 
without being sorry that the shadow came there sq 
soon,” 


44 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


She added a few more touches to the lilies, and 
paused again, to go off into a dream of the place 
where they grew. How pleasant it would be to 
nestle one’s feet in the warm leaves and grass by 
the lake’s brink, to* see the slender willow-boughs 
dipping into the water, and to hear the soft sleepy 
coo of the doves coming faintly from Sir Alfred’s 
dense old woods. It was a sin to stay indoors on a 
June day; she did not shrink from the sun as fair 
girls do, but loved to sit with uncovered head, and 
dark hair rumpled by the breezes. Even her little 
room, long-loved, was like a prison on a morning 
like this. 

“Losing my time? Well, I suppose I am,” she 
said, in answer to a reproof from an inner voice. 
“ But pictures must be dreamed of before they are 
painted. And the lilies have taken possession of my 
fancy to-day; they are drawing my thought away to 
that still water-home of theirs. I thought at first 
that I could never love the lake again, but I have 
forgotten the danger, and can remember only the 
sweetness now. It was kind to send the lilies.” 

Yes, it was kind, for it had put Tracy on good 
terms with herself once more. 'Behind all her 
comedy airs there had been a good deal of real an- 
noyance. She had worn her mask gracefully and 
lightly enough, nevertheless it had hardly veiled 
the chagrin of a proud girl who was conscious that 
she had acted foolishly. She could hold her head 
high again before grandma, and it would be impos- 
sible for Mr. Lazelle to be severe any longer. Not 
that she had quite believed in the kindly rector s 
severity; it must have been one of grandma’s fic- 
tions, she thought. But all was well that had ended 
well. 

The summer blooms thickened; the land was full 
of flowers and song; and the sun shone day after 
day in such cloudless splendor that men forgot to 
abuse their native climate, and went out to picnics 


BALMY DAYS. 


45 


and garden-parties with something of the zest of 
their school-days. Sir Alfred Montjoy was in high 
good-humor with himself and his surroundings. 
Sometimes, when he looked flack on his first im- 
pressions of Woodcourt, he wondered at his own 
blindness. It was extraordinary that he had not 
perceived its charms at once, but nothing was worse 
than an unsettled life; it spoiled a man for the seri- 
ous business of existence, and gave him false notions 
about the monotony of home and the tameness of the 
country. His friends had been right, quite right, 
when they had urged him to take up his residence at 
Woodcourt, and he was heartily glad that he had 
.come. . 

“What a sensible young man he is!” said grandma 
to Mr. Lazelle, when he had expressed his infinite 
content in her hearing. “ ‘ A contented mind is a 
continual feast; ’ but the majority of men are so dis- 
satisfied. Really, he is quite an example.” 

The rector smiled. He knew how easy it was for 
youth to imagine itself contented, and he saw, too, 
what it was that had made Woodcourt so beautiful 
and Fern gate so interesting to Alfred Montjoy. 

As the balmy days went on, Alfred’s visits grew 
more and more frequent to the Tauntons. Their 
house stood a little way out of the High Street of 
the old town, and was inclosed in a small court-yard, 
which was brightened by a neat border of box and 
flowers. The front of the old dwelling had a mon- 
astic air of primness and seclusion; but the back 
windows overlooked that sunny garden which was 
grandma’s pride. It was by no means an extensive 
piece of ground, but she had managed to crowd 
into it all the sweets of paradise. Here, on dreamy 
summer afternoons, Tracy was often to be found. 

There were a great many heart-throbs in that old 
garden. No sooner did Alfred turn bis steps away 
from the place than all his thoughts seemed to con- 
centrate upon it. Once or twice be rebelled against 


4 6 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


this impulse, with the natural fear that one feels 
when a dominant feeling takes hold of one’s life. 
But resistance was never very strong; he always 
yielded, and strode rapidly through his woods and 
fields to seek that quiet nook where a girl loitered 
among her flowers. For the first time he was fall- 
ing under the spell of a sincere passion, and it pos- 
sessed him body and soul. He was enthralled by 
every movement of her slender figure, every glance 
of the deep eyes, every tiny curl on the little dark 
head. There was no ennui in this love-affair; 
Tracy had the gift of keeping people amused with- 
out an effort; all the charming things that she said 
were spontaneously uttered; hers was the easy 
gracefulness of diction which made the hours fly 
while one listened to her talk. Meanwhile, grandma 
watched the growing intercourse with silent satisfac- 
tion. 

One day the rector was lingering over the tea-table 
with Mrs. Taunton, and glancing, now and again, 
through the window which opened upon the garden. 
The young people were there ; Tracy, leaning lightly 
against one of the rustic columns of the little sum- 
mer-house, was telling some small story with quiet 
animation. Sir Alfred was drinking in every word 
with unmistakable delight. It was so clear that he 
had a quick appreciation of her moods, so evident 
that no gift or grace of hers was lost upon him, that 
grandma wondered at Mr. Lazelle’s silence. He 
might, she thought, have expressed a little pleasure 
in the intimacy which was going on before’ his eyes. 

Was he growing dull or stupid? No; there was a 
certain alertness in his look which contradicted the 
half-formed impression. The old lady was fast los- 
ing patience with his reserve. She resented it 
keenly, and resolved to make him speak on the sub- 
ject that was nearest to her heart. 

“ Don’t you think,” she began, with a self-satisfied 
jsmile, “.that Tracy has found her knight at last? ” 


BALMY DAYS. 


47 


“ She has found a knight, certainly, ” he answered 
in a matter-of-fact tone. “ Montjoy would wear her 
token on his helmet, and break a lance for her with 
all his heart. ” 

She felt that there was something cold in his man- 
ner. “Yes, I see that he is devoted,” she said impa- 
tiently. “ But about Tracy herself. Is he not just 
the man she has always dreamed of?” 

“Tracy is not easily read,” he returned gravely. 
“She is like a river, swift, rippling, sparkling; it 
does not pause and permit you to look into its depths. ” 

“Well, I have never seen her show the same 
pleasure in any one else’s attentions,” said Mrs. 
Taunton, “ and he really is a very handsome fellow. 
She said the other day that his face reminded her of 
some old picture. I thought that was a sign that she 
had been studying him a good deal.” 

The rector turned and looked intently at his old 
friend. 

“ You would like them to come together? ” he said. 

“ I am not a match-maker,” grandma replied with 
dignity. “ But Tracy has no home but mine, and 
I am growing old. It is not strange if I desire to see 
her in a safe shelter.” 

“No,” said Mr. Lazelle, “no. And Woodcourt 
seems to you a desirable shelter?” 

“ Of course it is desirable. I don’t make any pre- 
tence of utter unworldliness, and it would be a good 
thing to see the child safely provided for. I do not 
deny that the position has its advantages; I should 
like my dear girl to be Lady Montjoy. You are a 
bachelor, Mr. Lazelle, and you can’t understand a 
mother’s anxiety.” 

“Indeed I can,” he said earnestly. “Only ‘the 
life is more than meat, and the body than raiment.’ ” 

Grandma was puzzled and annoyed. 

“Dear me, l don’t know why you are quoting 
Scripture in such a mysterious way,” she remarked. 
u What does it mean 5 ” 


4 8 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“It means just this.” The rector spoke with a 
quiet air of authority which he could assume some- 
times. “ Tracy has a great deal of that mysterious 
thing that we call soul. There are some who are 
born to make the world all the better for their pres- 
ence in it, and she is one of those beings. From 
her earliest girlhood I have seen her feeling her way 
toward the light that shall help her to accomplish 
her work. You may feed her daintily, clothe her 
richly, ‘and give her the highest place that society 
can offer; but if you fetter her soul, you destroy the 
purpose of her life.” 

“ But who wants to fetter her soul?” demanded 
Mrs. Taunton irritably. “ Can this vague work you 
mention be accomplished only by a spinster?” 

Mr. Lazelle smiled. “ Have I ever been the fierce 
advocate of single-blessedness?” he asked. “No; 
but I hold that women like Tracy should not enter 
into a mere bodily union. A soul like hers should 
have its rightful mate for time and for eternity.” 

“ And you mean to say that Sir Alfred is not the 
true soul-mate?” grandma, cried in exasperation. 
“ How can you talk such rubbish? And how is she 
to know the right one if she gives up this one? You 
unmarried men are all alike; every one of you has a 
screw loose in his brain.” 

The rector laughed outright. But he dropped the 
subject. 




CHAPTER VI 

HOPES AND DREAMS. 

“All yesterday I was spinning, 

Sitting alone in the sun; 

And the dream that I spun was so lengthy, 

It lasted till day was done.” 

— A. Procter. 

“Nothing,” said grandma, speaking to herself in 
a determined voice, “nothing shall ever persuade 
me that they are not meant for each other.” 

She was sitting at her open window on one of those 
golden afternoons which made one forget that there 
had ever been winter and rough weather. A black- 
bird was piping his old tune in the garden; some- 
times a soft puff of wind scattered a few rose-petals at 
her feet; a great humble-bee droned sleepily about 
the room. Never had life seemed so tranquil to Mrs. 
Taunton; never had the future promised such de- 
lightful things. All her own girlish dreams of am- 
bition were about to be fulfilled in the destiny of 
her grand-daughter. 

She remembered, as if it were an event of yes- 
terday, the attention that a certain young lord had 
once paid her at a county ball. She had been a 
pretty girl then, wearing her golden-brown hair in 
wonderful loops and braids and curls; and her white 
dress and blue sash had set off her pink-and-white 
beauty to the best advantage. All her friends said 
that she had made a conquest; and Mr. Taunton, a 
shy young fellow in those days, had stood afar off, 
and cursed the viscount in the depths of his jealous 
4 49 


5 ° 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


heart. But the dream faded, as such dreams are 
apt to do ; the lord went his way, married into his 
own set, and became a gouty earl with a heavily 
encumbered estate; and grandma wedded grandpa 
(not without a secret conviction that she might have 
done better), and spent many a peaceful year of mat- 
rimony with him. Still, although she had been a 
good wife and an admirable mother, Mrs. Taunton 
always felt that she would have shone as a countess; 
her natural dignity had fitted her for a position which 
she had never been permitted to fill. 

She had ever been an ambitious woman ; but her 
ambition was not of the highest kind. Such as it 
was, however, it had helped her to tread a good 
many of life’s rugged ways with firm feet. She had 
held her head high because she was possessed with 
the notion that she had been created for higher 
things. If she had been tempted to give in, and to 
sit down to cry by the wayside, she had remembered 
that she had very nearly married a peer of the realm, 
and that it behooved her, therefore, to carry herself 
with the lofty air of one who had only just missed 
feeing a great person. Dear old lady, it was this 
thought that kept her upright and trim of figure 
when others of her age sat huddled up in their 
chairs. It was this thought that gave her the power 
of management, and made her house one of the 
best-ruled -homes that could be found in the whole 
country. 

She had gone through life, from its early days, 
with that 

“Devotion to something afar,” 

which lends wings to the tired feet, and strength to 
the weary frame. Her aspiration had never soared 
clear above the mists of earth ; she had always felt 
that she could have been satisfied with the best things 
that the world had to give. Yet this feeling owed 
its origin to an imperfect knowledge of her own na- 


HOPES AND DREAMS. 


51 


ture; for grandma, as a countess, would never have 
been contented with her position. She would have 
desired to rise above it and, in the effort to rise, she 
vould have discovered that there were heights of 
vhich she had never had a glimpse at all. 

But as she sat dreaming in the afternoon sun- 
shine she congratulated herself on Tracy’s wonderful 
success. Many of the things that she had vainly 
longed for would be granted to her grandchild. 
Tracy would be the leading lady of the county; all 
Ferngate would be at her feet. As for the rector 
(here grandma’s brow contracted for a moment), he 
would have to confess that old bachelors ought to 
preserve a discreet silence about love affairs. Mrs. 
Taunton was so vexed with him that she quite for- 
got how she had forced him into speech. 

There was only one little cloud to cast its shadow 
over the brightness of her fair expectations; this 
was the dread of Lady Montjoy’s arrival at Wood- 
court. 

Grandma was shrewd enough to know that a * 
mother’s influence has often been powerful enough 
to spoil the “best-laid schemes.” She had seen 
young men lured away from their lady-loves when 
all was going merrily as a marriage bell, and not a 
hint of impending change had ever reached the mind 
of the luckless fair one. At the thought of Lady 
Mont joy, cool, proud, and civil, this happy old 
dreamer dropped her knitting-pins and gazed ab- 
sently at her geraniums and calceolarias with fear 
in her heart. 

The best way to guard against failure was to settle 
everything before her ladyship appeared. And that 
could be accomplished easily enough if Tracy would 
consent to hurry matters on a little; but alas! no 
one knew Tracy’s waywardness better than her 
grandmother. Years ago Mrs. Taunton had com- 
plained that the girl was always saying and doing 
unexpected things. 


52 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“You are constantly surprising me,” grandma 
sometimes said. “ I never know what is coming 
where you are concerned. ” 

“ How should you?” Tracy had asked. “I don’t 
know what is coming myself. My inner life is per- 
petually changing; if I look for the set of feelings 
which dominated me last week, I can’t find them. 
If I search for the particular fancy which fascinated 
me last month, I discover that it is utterly vanished. 
Something quite new has come in its place. You 
are a charming granny, but what exasperates me is 
your unreasonable expectations. You refuse to ac- 
commodate yourself to the fleeting lights and shades 
of my adorable character.” 

It was true that Tracy seemed to her grandmother 
to be a creature made up, as she had said, of fleeting 
lights and shades. If one could only fix a favor- 
able light, and make it permanent! Grandma re- 
solved to go to work in a cautious manner, and try 
to bring the girl into a quiet and reasonable frame 
of mind. Moreover, She hardly thought that her 
task would be as difficult as usual ; Tracy seemed 
really to enjoy Sir Alfred’s devotion; already they 
appeared to have established an excellent under- 
standing between them. When the young fellow 
related any of his experiences, she gave him an un- 
divided attention, which expressed her belief that 
he was worth listening to. And grandma only 
wanted her to go just one little step farther than she 
had gone already. She wanted her to let Sir Alfred 
see (in a perfectly modest and maidenly fashion), 
that she was willing to be, not only the companion 
of his summer days, but the faithful partner who 
would share the winter of his life. 

The door opened, and Tracy herself, wearing a 
hat and gloves, and carrying her sunshade, came 
into the room. 

“You don’t mean to say that you are going out 
for a walk!” exclaimed the old lady in dismay. 


HOPES AND DREAMS. 


S3 


“Yes,” Tracy answered gravely. “Little Ben 
wants to see me very much. I am afraid that child 
is going to die.” 

“ Now, Tracy, }^ou are distressing yourself about 
nothing.” Mrs. Taunton put down her knitting and 
spoke impressively. “Children don’t die of every 
slight ailment that may happen to attack them ; and 
little Ben is as stfong as a cart-horse.” 

“ He is not as strong as you think, grandma. ” The 
girl’s eyes were dim with tears. “And he is very 
fond of me; Jane says he asks for me every minute.” 

“Jane is a crafty woman. She knows that you 
have taken a liking to her boy, and she trades upon 
your feelings. It is too hot for you to go to that 
stuffy little cottage to-day. Besides, you may 
catch something.” 

“His illness is not infectious. You are wrong 
about Jane, grandma. When she lived here she 
was the most faithful of servants, and she is thinking 
only of her child when she writes. You don’t love 
children as I do, and you can’t realize how much I 
v/ant to go to Ben." 

“O Tracy, how difficult it is to manage you!” 
Mrs. Taunton leaned back in her easy-chair with 
an expression of deep vexation stamped upon her 
face. “You are thinking of little Ben when you 
ought to be occupied with matters of much greater 
importance^— matters which concern yourself and 
your deepest interests.” 

“I think far too much about myself,” said Tracy 
honestly. “ I am happiest when I lose sight of self 
altogether. Good-by, grandma; I’m going to Ben.” 

“This is sheer self-will,” exclaimed grandma, in 
a temper. “ Sir Alfred is sure to be here in a few 
minutes, and then ” 

“Why, then he will find me gone.” Tracy spoke 
in an airy manner, adjusting a cluster of geraniums 
in her bodice. “ No one knows how to entertain a 
young man better than my charming grandmother. 


54 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


Go back a few years, and believe that Sir Alfred is 
your old flame, Lord Burrowfield. Perhaps our 
friend is his lord re-incarnated. ” 

With these words she vanished, leaving Mrs. 
Taunton in a state of intense irritation. 

It was as if Tracy had penetrated into the depths 
of her mind, seen her little plans, and instantly 
set herself to thwart them. The girl was so terribly 
quicksighted that sometimes the old lady was afraid 
even to think in her presence. And now, just when 
it was most important for Tracy to let Sir Alfred 
see that his presence was desired, she had started off 
on an absurd errand, exactly as if she wanted to 
avoid him. What was the construction which he 
would of course put upon her absence? His self-love 
would be wounded, he would take offence and stay 
away from the house, and then Lady Montjoy would 
come, and gain an easy victory. It would not be 
difficult to persuade him to forget a girl who had 
shown him that she could exist without him. 

She resumed her knitting with a gloomy brow, 
and had finished her fifth row when a peal from the 
hall bell resounded through the house. He had 
come, then? Yes, here he was, looking very hand- 
some in his suit of gray, and directing a furtive 
glance through the window into the garden. 

“Another glorious day, Mrs. Taunton,” he said. 
“I’m going to think that our climate has turned 
over a new leaf. My mother will hardly believe 
that she has come to England.” 

“ Do you expect her very soon?” asked grandma 
with a sinking heart. 

“ Not till the end of next week. That will give 
me time to complete one or two improvements. By 
the way, I want you to see what I’ve done on the 
island in the middle of the lake. You remember 
the island, don’t you?” 

“Not very distinctly,” grandma confessed. “I 
have not seen Woodcourt for many years, you know. ” 


HOPES AND DREAMS. 


55 


“Of course not. I’m always forgetting that the 
place has been going to ruin for ages. And things 
considered, I wonder that it isn’t in a worse state. 
But I’ve taken rather a fancy to that island, and 
I set to work upon it at once, letting other matters 
go. I should like to show it to you and Miss Taun- 
ton.” 

“Improvements are always interesting,” said 
grandma smoothly. “ And we are so proud of Wood- 
court ; it is the only great house near Ferngate, you 
see.- So we have made much of it. ” 

“ Will you come to luncheon on Wednesday?” asked 
the young man eagerly. “ Lazelle has promised to 
come, and I’ll send a carriage for 3’ou and Miss 
Taunton at one. Will that be too early?” 

“ Thank you. I will ask Tracy if she has made 
any other engagement, but I don’t think she has. 
One o’clock will suit us very well.” 

He rose, and made a step toward the open French 
window. 

“Shall I find her out there?” he said. “We may 
as well settle it at once.” 

Grandma cleared her throat uneasily. 

“ She is not in the garden, Sir Alfred. The fact 
is, Tracy has vexed me a little by starting off to 
see a sick child. The dear girl is so anxious to do 
a kindness that she forgets to study herself. In 
this hot weather it is not good for her to go into 
stuffy cottages where there is illness.” 

“ Certainly not.” An expression of unmistakable 
alarm appeared on the baronet’s handsome young 
face. “What is the illness? Not small-pox?” 

“Oh, no, no! My dear Sir Alfred, there has not 
been an outbreak of small-pox in the town for fifty 
years. Ferngate is one of the healthiest places in 
creation. This child is a pet of Tracy’s, and she al- 
ways worries herself about his little ailments. It is 
very silly of her.” 

“ I see. ” He looked relieved. “ He has taken the 


56 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


place of a lapdog. Where does the child live? 
Not a very long way off, I hope.” 

“ About a mile away, at a place called Long Gar- 
dens. It is not an attractive spot, by any means ; 
and the cottages are shamefully out of repair. I 
have my doubts about the drainage.” 

A smile flickered round Sir Alfred’s well-cut 
mouth. 

“ I dare say the drainage is bad,” he said indiffer- 
ently. “ The property called Long Gardens belongs 
to me. But they’ll have to wait a long while before 
anything is done.” 

Gradma began to feel that the fates were against 
her that day. What evil impulse had prompted her 
to talk about drainage? She hastened to atone for 
her blunder. 

“ I don’t think anything is seriously wrong: people 
who live in cottages are always grumbling, ” she said 
quickly. “ I wish Tracy was not so ready to listen to 
their grievances.” 

“ I will give her a lecture — shall I?” There was a 
bright boyish look in the young fellow’s brown eyes. 
No real sorrow had ever left a trace # on his smooth 
forehead, and for a moment his usual expression of 
haughty melancholy had vanished. Grandma was 
so fascinated that she could then and there have 
given him leave to do anything. 

“Indeed you shall,” she answered. “I am sure 
you will do her good. I am a prosy old woman, 
and I dare say she is tired of listening to me.” 

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll follow her at once, 
and bring her back to you in a repentant frame of 
I mind.” 

The old lady looked after him with an expression 
of deep satisfaction ; and when the door closed she 
sank back in her chair with a sigh of relief. 


CHAPTER VII. 


LONG GARDENS. 

“ But he — to him the least thing given 
Means great things at a distance ; 

He wants my world, my sun, my heaven, 

Soul, body, whole existence.” 

— Mrs. Browning. 

What a splendid day it was! Even in a piece of 
waste ground, where fragments of broken crockery 
were strewn about, there were weed flowers in 
bloom. This bit of land lay outside the town of 
Ferngate, and it was confidently believed that it 
would be covered with houses at no very distant 
date. But Ferngate was a slow-moving place; the 
people who lived over their shops in the High 
Street were contented with the old roofs which had 
sheltered their fathers and grandfathers, and were 
not to be tempted into hastily built villas and ter- 
races. So the waste ground was left to grow this- 
tles and wild camomile, and everything that had the 
power of scampering and jumping was at liberty to 
use it as a playground. Children made the most of 
this favorite spot, and red kerchiefs and white 
pinafores were fluttering in a soft west wind as 
Tracy walked that way. 

She was glad to get out of the house and away 
from grandma this afternoon. She could always 
understand the old lady’s hidden meanings without 
the aid of words. And she was beginning, half 
unconsciously, to resent Mrs. Taunton’s increasing 
satisfaction in Sir Alfred’s frequent visits. What 
57 


58 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

right had grandma to smile at the sound of the 
door-bell, and fix her beaming eyes upon her grand- 
child with an expression of unspeakable delight? 
Tracy was by no means sure that there was any le- 
gitimate cause for rejoicing; even if Sir Alfred had 
fallen in love with her, really and truly, what then? 

What then, indeed? Was it such a wonderful 
thing for a young man to fall in love with a young 
woman? Tracy felt that love-making would be 
much nicer if other people did not exchange mean- 
ing glances and notice everything that went on. 
But nothing was so uncomfortable as the conscious- 
ness that you were not sure of your own feelings at 
all! 

The children played on, tumbling and screaming 
over the grass ; and one rosy boy of eight stopped 
in the middle of leap-frog to nod to the young lady. 

“I’m on my way to see Ben,” she called out; 
“ shall I find him better?” 

“A little better, miss, and frettin’ dreadful after 
you,” said the boy, going over a “back” before he 
had finished his sentence. 

Long Gardens was the name given to four small 
houses which stood just on the borders of the waste 
land, and were very much out of repair. The Long 
Gardens had lost their boundaries, and had become 
one piece of ground, common to all the tenants 
alike. There was no fence at all ; the pottery frag- 
ments which abounded in this place were to be found 
among the ragged shrubs and uncultivated flowers 
belonging to the cottages. Even the roses and lilies 
had an air of slovenliness, growing as they did 
out of such untidy soil. No palings divided the 
back doors, and as it was the custom in Long Gardens 
for the tenants to live chiefly in their back rooms, 
they were intimately acquainted with each other’s 
domestic affairs. 

Tracy did not stand upon ceremony where little 
Ben was concerned; moreover, Jane Shaw, always 


LONG GARDENS. 


59 


clean among the uncleanly, was seldom taken at a 
disadvantage. So the visitor stepped lightly across 
the irregularities of the ground ; picked her way 
through straggling tufts of mignonette, avoided 
treading on any of the marigolds whose bold amber 
faces were thrust forward everywhere, and looked 
in on Jane, bending over a saucepan, stirring some 
arrowroot for her sick child. 

“Ah!” said Jane, speaking in a quiet voice and 
lifting a faded face that was comely still, “ I thought 
you’d come, Miss Tracy.” 

“Where is he?” Tracy asked softly. “Oh, I see. 
You have made him up a little bed in the corner, and 
he can lie there and look at the marigolds. Dear 
Ben, how nice this is!” 

A pretty little lad of five, whose blue eyes were 
languid with sickness, greeted Tracy with a faint 
smile. 

She took him into her lap, holding his body in 
an easy position with the kind of skill which comes 
by nature to some women. 

“ So Ben is not so very ill after all,” she said in a 
tender voice. “ Will he be able to eat the nice stuff 
that mother makes? I think he will if I tell him a 
story.” 

The child gave a low murmur of assent, leaning 
his head on her breast as if it were a well-known 
resting-place. She went on talking to him in soft, 
cooing tones, while Jane moved quietly to and fro. 
When the arrowroot was ready Ben’s appetite and 
spirits seemed to be slowly coming back. He could 
sit up and eat, supported by Tracy’s arm. 

“What made him ill?” Tracy asked. “ Has there 
been any kind of sickness going about among the 
children here? ” 

“There’s always sickness among them, miss,” 
Jane replied. “ The smells from those little puddles 
in the gardens are bad for us all. My husband 
complains and complains; but what’s the good? 


6o 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


Long Gardens never was a healthy spot, they say. I 
wish we’d known that before we settled here.” 

“Why don’t you ‘remove?” said Tracy, softly 
stroking Ben’s curls. “ It will not do to bring 
these little ones up in unwholesome air. Something 
must be done. ” 

“ It wouldn’t be easy to move, miss; Shaw was ill 
himself, off and on, all through the winter. We’re 
a little behind with our rent, that’s the truth.” 

“Is it very much?” asked Tracy, giving Ben a 
gentle little hug. 

“ No, miss.” There was a misty look about Jane’s 
eyes as they rested on the girl. “ It is not much, 
and Shaw hopes to set the matter right soon. He’s 
working overtime, and we shall get on again, please 
God. But when the hot weather came in the pud- 
dles took to smelling, and somehow all the strength 
went clean out of my back and legs. And then 
Ben fell sick. ” 

“You don’t look over-bright, Jane,” Tracy re- 
marked sadly. “Why can’t the owner of the prop- 
erty be written to? Whoever he is* he ought not 
to neglect his houses in this way.” 

“ Long Gardens belong to the Montjoy estate, Miss 
Tracy,” said Jane hopelessly, “ and they may as well 
belong to the queen. Them Montjoys don’t take a 
bit more notice of us than royalty would — not a bit. 
Shaw says that if the Almighty allows a man to 
have a good big piece of this earth, he means it to 
be well looked after. In the beginning, as Shaw 
says, the Lord gave Eden to Adam, and told him 
that he had got to attend to it. I wish the Mont- 
joys would take the trouble to look after their 
garden.” 

Jane had ended her sentence with a little clattering 
among the cups and plates on the dresser. Her 
back was turned toward the open door, and she did 
not see that some one was standing there, looking into 
the kitchen. Nor did Tracy see, for her head was 


LONG GARDENS. 


6l 


bent over the child; but in another moment the 
darkening of the light made her look up. 

“ Sir Alfred !” she said, holding Ben a little closer 
and drawing a quick breath. “What brings you 
here? ” 

“You have brought me,” he answered gayly. 
“ When I called at the Laurels I found Mrs. Taun- 
ton in a most uncomfortable state of mind. She had 
taken it into her head that you were running into 
danger. ” 

“Grandma’s nerves are out of order.” Tracy said 
calmly. “ There is no danger here. ” 

She smiled at Jane as she spoke; and then sud- 
denly remembering the subject of their conversation, 
she added : 

“ If there is a danger it is in your, power to re- 
move it, so I am glad that you have come. ” 

His face clouded over. 

“ Do you want some one to go for a doctor?” he 
asked, with a doubtful glance at the child in her arms. 

“No,” she answered, “the doctor has done all 
that he can. It is for you to do the rest; and if 
you will do it we shall not want the doctor again. ” 

There was a sweet ring of appeal in her voice, and 
he knew at once what it was that she required of 
him; but he would not appear to know. Jane 
looked at him furtively, and then gave all her atten- 
tion to her boy. 

“Do let me take him now, miss,” she entreated; 
“he is heavy, and you’ll be tired.” 

She did not seem to see the look which Sir Alfred 
cast on little Ben. Yet she did see it, and it haunted 
her memory for many a day afterward. It was a 
look of dislike and resentment. It seemed to say 
plainly that the little fellow had actually dared to 
be a nuisance. But Tracy, pressing her lips to 
Ben’s forehead, saw nothing. 

“ I shall stay longer when I come again,” she said, 
parting with her burden reluctantly. “ It is too bad 


62 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


that I should be hurried, but grandma is unusually 
fidgety to-day.” 

“You are not to linger. I have had my orders,” 
Sir Alfred remarked from the door. He had not 
crossed the threshold, and Jane felt instinctively 
that he did not mean to enter. 

“I am coming,” Tracy said. She parted with 
Jane with a whispered word and a warm hand-clasp, 
and then the two went away together. 

Jane Shaw was a rustic by birth and her educa- 
tion had been of the simplest kind; but she was not 
a commonplace woman. She had often, and against 
her will, that curious insight into other people’s 
inner selves which is the gift of a very few. When 
those two went away from her door together, she 
looked after them with a startled expression in her 
eyes; and then she shivered, although her little 
kitchen was warm with the summer sunshine. 

Was there any peril hovering over Miss Tracy? 
Surely it was a foolish thing to feel afraid of that 
handsome young gentleman; but it was something 
very near akin to fear which crept over her when 
she saw them side by side. She did not like this 
stranger — not because he would not cross her thresh- 
old — but because she had looked just for an in- 
stant into the inmost man, and had seen, as in a 
flash, a depth of fierce passion and selfishness. 
When they had gone away, she stood for a moment 
as if she had been rooted to the floor, and then she 
suddenly crossed the door-step, and watched the two 
figures moving over the waste ground. The shouts 
of the children at play came ringing through the 
air; a warm light spread over the flowery waste 
and transformed it into a bit of fairy-land; but 
Jane felt just then a strange sinking of the heart. 

“So you have had a call from Miss Tracy,” said 
a voice behind her, “ and she has gone off with Sir 
Alfred Mont joy? I wish she could persuade him 
to improve Long Gardens.” 


LONG GARDENS. 


63 


Jane turned quickly, with a sense of comfort. 
The rector was not a brilliant man ; he had never 
made a great noise in a world where there is always 
too much din, but he had the art of diffusing peace. 
Jane Shaw felt soothed when she saw his portly figure 
and benign face, and drew a deep breath of satis- ' 
faction. 

“ O sir, I’m glad to see you!” she said. “We 
want to move away from Long Gardens. I’d rather 
not live on Sir Alfred Montjoy’s land, sir, if you 
please. Shaw was ill last winter, as you know, sir; 
and we owe seven pounds for rent, not a sixpence 
more or less. It shall be paid, somehow; my hus- 
band shall borrow it from somewhere, and we’ll go 
before worse things happen to us.” 

It was clear that Jane was unusually agitated; 
she stood twisting a corner of her apron, and her 
thin face wore an unwonted flush. Mr. Lazelle re- 
garded her with quiet interest. 

“This place is certainly unwholesome,” he said 
after a pause. “ But perhaps Sir Alfred may be 
moved to do something. You have a good bit of 
garden here, you see. ” 

“We’ll put up with a smaller garden, sir, else- 
where. Only let us get away; I’ll begin at Shaw 
as soon as ever he comes in to his tea. He’s got a 
good master who knows that he’s a man to be trusted, 
and I think he’d help my husband at a pinch. 
Dear Miss Tracy! my heart’s disquieted about her, 
sir.” 

“ Why is your heart disquieted about her? ” the 
rector asked. “ Did. she not seem well?” 

“ Yes, sir; quite as well as usual, although, to my 
thinking, Miss Tracy is never as strong as most of 
us. It’s not her health, though, that troubles me.” 

“ Then what is it, Mrs. Shaw?” he persisted gently. 

“ You are strongly attached to her, I know, and love 
has keen sight. Do you see a shadow hovering near 
her?” 


6 4 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“I do, sir. You’ve put my feelings into plain 
words for me,” said Jane, with a frank look into his 
face. “ It made me shiver to see him by her side. ” 

“ Do you fear that some evil will come to her 
through him?” the rector went on, “you need not 
be afraid to speak.” 

Jane twisted her apron harder than ever, and the 
light of excitement shone in her eyes. It was not often 
that this quiet woman was so moved ; Mr. Lazelle had 
seen her patiently living the life of a workman’s 
wife, and he knew that she had always lived it well. 
He could rely on Jane’s common sense in everyday 
matters, and this reliance made her words seem 
weighty. She was not hysterical ; her sorrows, as 
well as her joys, had always been accepted with that 
quietness which inspires respect and trust. 

“ If it were to any one but you, sir,” she said, “ I 
should be afraid to speak. But, sir, I do want to tell 
you that I’ve had a warning.” 

She paused, and went back suddenly into the kitch- 
en to satisfy herself that little Ben was . perfectly 
safe. The child, lying quietly on his bed in the 
corner, was amusing himself in a feeble fashion with 
a wooden horse, minus its head. The mother saw 
that this was a hopeful sign, and returned to the 
spot where the rector waited beside the tall lilies. 

“ Miss Tracy was sitting with Ben in her lap,” she 
went on, “ and I had just been saying that there 
was no good in asking the Montjoys’ to improve 
Long Gardens, when I was seized, all of a sudden, 
with a fit of shivers. As I had got the cups and 
saucers in my hands, ready too set them out for tea, I 
made a sort of clattering, sir, as you may fancy. 
Then Miss Tracy looked up suddenly at the door, 
and gave a quick little start. ‘Sir Alfred!’ she said. 
And I turned round sharp, and saw him standing on 
the threshold.” 

“Well? ’’said the rector gently. He did not betray 
any surprise ; he was simply listening gravely. 


LONG GARDENS. 


65 


“Well, sir, the sight of such a handsome young 
gentleman made me ashamed of my shivers ; and yet, 
what did I do but shiver again in the queerest way? 
But when I went too take the child from Miss Tracy’s 
arms, I saw him cast such an evil look at my poor 
little boy that I knew why I’d shivered. And I 
made up my mind, then and there, that even if Sir 
Alfred Montjoy were to build us a new cottage with 
golden walls, I’d never stay on his land.” 

Mr. Lazelle was silent, but his eyes seemed tC 
encourage Jane to go on. 

“ He said that Mrs. Taunton had felt anxious about 
Miss Tracy,” she continued; “and my dear miss 
squeezed my hand and said good-by. I watched 
them going off together side by side; she a perfect 
lady inside and out; he a perfect gentleman on the 
outside ; but maybe my eyes were dim. For though 
the light was shining everywhere, she seemed to be 
walking in a shadow, and the shadow came from 
him. They moved on and on, and the shadow went 
with them. And then you spoke behind me, sir, 
and I was right glad to hear your voice. ” 

The rector smiled upon her kindly. 

“Perhaps your eyes were dim,” he said. “If so, 
one can hardly wonder, for you are not feeling 
strong, and you are anxious about your little one. 
Still, Mrs. Shaw, I will not persuade you to re? 
main here if you feel drawn in another direction. 
And about the seven pounds— I dare say Mr. Steere 
will advance the money, but if not: — — ” 

“O sir, you’re the best of men!” Jane’s cheeks 
were flushing again. “ But you can’t be always lend- 
ing and helping, and they are mean who will let you 
do it. Mr. Steere will come forward, sir, never fear. ” 
“I’ll go in and look at Ben,” said Mr. Lazelle, 
turning toward the kitchen. “And don’t be afraid 
that any one has cast an evil spell on your boy. I 
own I think all the better of a young man if he 
likes children ; but it is 3. liking which some men do 

$ 


66 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


not develop till they are middle-aged. I ought to be 
a very happy fellow, for I have always loved the lit- 
tle ones and they have always loved me.” 

Little Ben testified to the truth of these words by 
dropping his horse and welcoming the rector with 
outstretched arms. The child was really better, 
Jane said with reviving cheerfulness. 

Mr. Lazelle went his way with his mind running 
on Mrs. Shaw’s words. He did not think that 
even Tracy’s persuasions would move Sir Alfred 
to improve Long Gardens; but he knew that the girl 
would plead for the poor tenants with all her might. 
Did he put any faith in that “warning” of which Jane 
had spoken so earnestly? It would, perhaps, be say- 
ing too much to assert that he did; but it is certain 
that he put faith in another warning which came 
from his inner self ; and yet he could not tell how to 
avert the danger. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


DECIDING. 

“Would’st thou cling to me still, 

As down life’s sloping hill 

We came at last through the unresting years? 

Art thou prepared for tears, 

For time’s sure-coming losses, 

For life’s despites and crosses, 

My love, my love?” 

— L. Morris. 

When Tracy walked away from Long Gardens she 
had no suspicion of Jane's forebodings. In fact, 
she was feeling very happy. As she tripped lightly 
over the uneven ground a half-smile of innocent 
triumph played about her mouth. She was exulting 
beforehand in the anticipated success of her powers 
of persuasion. Sir Alfred could not refuse her any- 
thing, she thought with a little thrill of girlish pride. 
She was fully aware of her strong influence over 
him, and quite resolved that it should be a good in- 
fluence. Somehow — she knew not why — her mind 
was less unsettled than it had been earlier in the 
day. Perhaps this was because she had escaped 
from grandma and her schemes; and there would be 
a pleasure in convincing the old lady that Sir Alfred 
would follow without being beckoned. 

On the whole, she was sure that she had never 
liked him as well as she did now. 

For a little while they walked in silence, and then 
she stumbled slightly over a stone, and he held out 
his hand to help her. She looked up at him with a 
deepening of the smile that was already on her face, 
67 


68 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


unconscious that she was, at that moment, fresher 
and brighter than he had ever seen her before. 

“You will do something to improve your cot- 
tages?” she said in a half-playful tone of entreaty, 
know you will. ” 

His handsome face softened, and the brown eyes 
that looked into hers were full of promises. 

“ You do know,” he answered. “ It is easy to see 
that I am ready to do a great deal — when you bid 
me.” 

“But I do not ask for a great deal.” Her voice 
was very sweet in its pleading. 

“ It is the bad drainage that has made poor little 
Ben so ill, and you can soon have the drains set 
right.” 

She held her face beseechingly up to his, and his 
reply came at once, readily, cheerfully, although 
he scarcely thought about the words he was saying. 

“Yes, Long Gardens shall be set right.” 

“Now you are very good,” she said softly; and 
again a silence fell upon theni both. Even the dull- 
est men have certain instincts, and Sir Alfred (who 
was not dull by any means) was realizing that Tracy’s 
heart was stirred with a strong pulsation. He cared 
for this girl passionately ; he wanted to be the master 
and possessor of that delicate face and of those deep 
eyes that shone at him through their black lashes. 
She was fresh, she was thoroughly unhackneyed, she 
had the nameless charm without which the most per- 
fect beauty cannot long enthrall. His temperament 
always made him demand amusement, and no one 
had ever amused him as Tracy had done. This was 
the first time that she had ever asked anything of 
him, and if the request were a nuisance, what then ? 
He felt he could not but concede to her what she 
wished, and then came a quick after- thought : 

“ There will be no need to do it, after all. ” 

Alferd Montjoy had the strong, selfish nature 
which walks straight to the gratification of its desire, 


DECIDING. 


69 

and does not pause for any trifling consideration. 
He was bent upon making Tracy his own ; he meant 
to marry her, and he was ready to promise anything 
to gain his end. Very quickly he had discovered that 
she would not be easily won. Mrs. Taunton might 
smile and be gracious and compliant, but her grand- 
daughter would keep him off with her delicate little 
mockeries and hold him, as it were, far away from 
her. All the women he had known had bored him 
after a time ; he had seen through their pretences and 
affectations, and was well acquainted with all those 
feminine devices which are as old as the hills. But 
here was a girl in whom he could thoroughly believe, 
a girl who would be worth the trouble of fighting 
for and winning. No matter what it cost him, he 
would gain her ; on that point he was quite resolved, 
and nothing should turn him from his purpose. 

He could believe in her, and he wanted her to be- 
lieve in him ; but he did not care to make himself 
worthy of her trust. She would not marry him if 
she did not believe in him ; it was necessary, there- 
fore, that he should seem to be all that she wished 
him to be. If she were undeceived later on, there 
would only be the inevitable enlightenment which 
had come to millions of other women after marriage. 
She would open her eyes to the fact that ■ he meant 
to please himself and no one else, and then she would 
settle down quite calmly and amiably into her 
position. 

And then, too, what a good position he had to 
give ! All that she did not fully realize for herself 
grandma was realizing for her; and it was well that 
she had the old lady’s worldly wisdom to fall back 
upon. Tracy was peculiar; she had exalted notions 
about life, and if it had not been for Mrs. Taunton 
she would have dreamed all her best years away. 
Montjoy had a friendly liking for grandma, who 
was nearer his own level than Tracy was, and he did 
not despise her assistance. At any cost he must 


70 


through pain to peace. 


win the girl whom he loved in his own passionate 
fashion, and he honestly believed that it would be 
“la good thing for her if she became his wife. 

That Tracy would be happier if she lived alone 
and poor, than she would be if she were bound to 
him, was too absurd an idea to be entertained. 

And really, on a day like this, when nature was 
in her sweetest mood, it seemed impossible that a 
young man and a young woman should not live 
happily together, even if there was merely a bodily 
union. The body was all that Sir Alfred thought of 
or cared about. People discoursed glibly of souls 
and spirits; and if you had questioned him closely 
he would probably have said that he supposed that 
an immortal part of you would live on after the mor- 
tal part had decayed. This was a venerable and 
respectable belief ; and he meant to stick to it. Mean- 
while, he did not concern himself about that immor- 
tal part or its future destiny in the least. 

This, then, was the man for whom Tracy Taun- 
ton’s heart was beginning to beat faster than it had 
ever beat before. This was the companion by whose 
side she was to walk all the days of her pilgrimage ; 
and her grandmother, who loved her well, was weary- 
ing Heaven with her prayers to bring the union to 
pass. Truly, when we look back on our lives, and 
remember the things that we have prayed for, we 
have good reason to blush for ourselves. What 
miseries have we not striven to win for those we 
have loved best! What thorns we should have 
planted in their path if our petitions had been heard ! 
It is well for affectionate parents and guardians that 
most of them go out of this world without realizing 
the mischief that they have wrought in the lives that 
were under their control ; and better still for them 
that there was a limit to that control. 

Wilful and wayward as Tracy had always seemed, 
the desire to satisfy her grandmother was deeply 
rooted in her inmost self. She loved the old woman 


DECIDING. 


71 


dearly, and had made hundreds of little unknown 
sacrifices for her sake — sacrifices of time and inclina- 
tion which no one had ever suspected. And although 
she had set out on her walk to Long Gardens with 
some irritation against grandma, the mood had passed 
away. Sir Alfred had followed her. He was ten- 
der, gentle, complying, all that a lover in earnest 
ought to be ; and she was beginning to think that 
grandma’s judgment was right after all. 

Mrs. Taunton looked anxiously at the pair when 
they re-entered the room together, but Tracy’s smile 
reassured her at once. 

“ It is delightful out of doors, grandma,” she said, 
“ and Sir Alfred has been wonderfully good. He 
has promised to improve Long Gardens.” 

Later on, when the old woman and the young girl 
were alone together, the former could not resist the 
impulse to speak out plainly. She put out her hand and 
stroked Tracy’s smooth cheek with a caressing touch. 

“My dear,” she said, “you must see that things 
can’t go on in this way. Sir Alfred will soon ask 
you an important question. Have you thought about 
your answer?” 

The girl sat down upon a hassock at Mrs. Taun- 
ton’s feet, and sighed heavily. 

“I have thought and thought and thought,” she 
murmured with her head on grandma’s shoulder. 
“Oh! it’s a dreadful thing to get married, isn’t it?” 

“ I did not find it so,” replied the old lady. 

“But you are not me, grandma. You never had 
any difficulty in making up your mind.” 

“ I cultivated a habit of decision. You ought to 
make up your mind, Tracy.” 

“ But supposing I don’t like it after I have made 
it up?” 

“ I fear, my dear, that you have encouraged inde- 
cision of character; in fact, you have made a kind of 
boast of it. You think it would be too monotonous 
to continue long in one shape.” 


72 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“There’s something in that,” admitted Tracy. 

The shoulder on which she was leaning trembled 
a little, the hand that stroked her hair was unsteady, 
and grandma’s voice quivered when she spoke again. 

“ O Tracy, I want to see you settled before I die ! 
To go out of the world and leave you alone would 
be more than I could bear. Laura is too stupid to 
take care of you, although she means well. And 
you are delicate, my child; you cannot rough it as 
some do; you want comforts and luxuries.” 

“I think I could do without them,” said Tracy 
meditatively. “I’m almost sure that I could.” 

“ And I am sure that you could not. Tracy, what 
would you have — what are you waiting for? Sir 
Alfred is as handsome as anybody in a novel ; and 
indeed it seems tome as if one of your dream heroes 
had come into your everyday life. Think of alb the 
good that you may do if you marry him. You are 
fond of helping people, and when you are Lady Mont- 
joy your power of helpfulness will be very great. 
And then there is his life to be considered as well 
as your own. It often goes ill with a man when he 
fails to win the woman of his choice. Men don’t 
take a disappointment as meekly as we do; they 
resent it, and it is like a bitter drop that poisons all 
the sweetness that is poured into the cup. A great 
love — such a love as he feels for you — is strong 
enough to raise him to heights he has never thought 
of yet.” 

“ Yes it may raise him.” She looked up suddenly 
into Mrs. Taunton’s face. “ But will he sink again? 
As months and years go on, and other interests and 
pleasures crowd into his life, shall I not lose my 
power to lift? The lifting power ought not to be 
all on my side, grandma. It would be terrible to 
feel that I was losing my hold, would it not?” 

“ You have a faint heart, Tracy, ” said Mrs. Taunton, 
in a voice that was neither clear nor firm. “ If every 
girl were as full of doubts as you are, there would be 


DECIDING. 


73 


no more marriages. I am sorry for Sir Alfred, and 
sorry for you. I thought you cared for him a little.” 

The color rushed suddenly into her cheeks. 

“ I believe I do care for him, grandma,” she cried. 
“ And if he asks me I will say yes. Don’t fret any 
more only tell me that I have made you happy.” 

“Very happy, my darling.” And the old lady 
folded the girl lovingly in her arms, shedding tears 
of gratitude and jo 



1 


CHAPTER IX. 


BY THE LAKE. 

“We two stood there with never a third, 

But each by each, as each knew well ; 

The sights we saw, and the sounds we heard, 

The lights and the shades made up a spell 
Till the trouble grew and stirred. ” 

— Browning. 

The little island in the middle of the lake at Wood- 
court was no longer a neglected spot given over to 
water-rats and reeds. The dilapidated old hut had 
entirely disappeared, and in its stead there was a 
picturesque thatched cottage, large enough to con- 
tain a keeper and his wife. It was a charming little 
dwelling with a rustic porch and diamond-paned 
casements under the overhanging eaves ; and although 
it was brand new it seemed to harmonize perfectly 
with its surroundings. The landing-stage, too, was 
new ; and there was a beautiful new boat, in which 
Tracy seated herself in dreamy content, and was 
rowed across the lake by Sir Alfred. 

There was no one yet established in the cottage ; 
and, when they had landed, she was conducted to a 
garden-seat, placed on the slope in front of the little 
house. All the weeds had been rooted up ; careful 
hands had pruned the over-luxuriance of the boughs, 
opening out a full view of the lake, now shining in 
the golden mist of a September afternoon. As yet 
there were few tokens of the wane of that long sum- 
mer; here and there a touch of soft crimson or dull 
amber gave a hint of the slow approach of autumn ; 

74 


BY THE LAKE. 


75 


but there were no gaps in the rich fulness of the 
foliage, no chill breaths in the warm air. Tracy 
took off her hat, and sat bareheaded under the shade 
of the trees; and Alfred Montjoy watched her stead- 
fastly, with the growing consciousness that she 
touched his fancy more than ever to-day. Fresh and 
delicate the girl looked, her dark-gray eyes gleaming 
under their heavy black fringes, and the white teeth 
showing between the soft red lips. She was not 
pensive now; a moment ago her laugh had rung out 
merrily, and there was a look of mirth still linger- 
ing about her face — a look which made it easier for 
the man by her side to speak out the desire of his 
heart. In the graver moods that visited her some- 
times, Tracy always seemed to be miles away in 
spirit from her lover; it was when they were as boy 
and girl together, rejoicing in their youth, that they 
drew nearest to each other. 

“I like this place,” she said, suddenly breaking a 
brief silence, “ and I am glad that you have still left 
it with something of the aspect of a wilderness. If 
it were not for that glimpse of the stately old house 
there, one might believe that one was a settler in 
some wild wooded country far away. But the Court 
reminds you that you are within the bounds of civil- 
zation, and close to all the proprieties.” 

“ Don’t you like the old Court?” he asked wist- 
fully. “ Doesn’t it seem like a home?” 

“ Yes, it does. It gives one a welcome sense of 
protection, and a selfish kind of peace.” 

As she spoke she leaned back in the corner of the 
bench, half closing her eyes, and enjoying the 
honeyed feeling of content that was stealing over 
her in these warm shades. She was fond of listen- 
ing to the leaf-murmurs here, fond of watching the 
moor-hen that grew bold in their silent presence, 
and the quick, silvery flashes that the fish made, now 
and then, above the water. It was the very spot 
for world-forgetfulness and lazy day-dreams. 


76 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“Tracy,” said Alfred Montjoy in a low voice, “I 
want you always at Woodcourt. I cannot endure 
the place without you now. It was your influence 
over me which made me begin to take an interest 
in it. I’ve had an unsettled life, dear; but if you 
will make a home with me, I shall never be a rover 
any more. All was nothing till you came, Tracy ; 
it’s wonderful what a change one little woman can 
make in a man’s existence, isn’t it? Won’t you look 
at me, and tell me that you love me?” 

She did look — just for one second — at the handsome, 
passion-wrought face with the leaf shadows quiver- 
ing over it, and her heart throbbed fast, 

“ Speak, ” he said again; and this time his voice 
had died into a whisper, and there was a look of hun- 
gry pain in his eyes. 

Doubts, fears, self-distrust — all these were for- 
gotten, purposely banished, maybe, by Tracy, when 
she felt the strong appeal of her lover’s suffering. 
Grandma’s words seemed to be ringing in her ears. 
“ It often goes ill with a man when he fails to win 
the woman of his choice.” How could she deny 
herself to one whose life would be a waste without 
her presence? And she did love him ; surely at that 
moment she really loved him. 

Did she give the answer he prayed for? She 
hardly knew ; but he looked at her with a murmur 
of delight, and took her into his arms. There was 
a silence in which Tracy became aware that the 
leaves were whispering a lullaby, hushing her into a 
dream of security and rest. She allowed herself to 
be folded closely in Sir Alfred’s strong embrace, 
and thought, in a vague way, that all the worrying 
was over, and everybody would be satisfied at last. 

“I am so happy, darling,” he said, still holding 
her fast. “ Tracy, you are such a haughty little thing 
that I was half afraid you would give me some 
trouble. In getting you I have got everything that I 
wanted. You belong entirely to me now; your 


BY THE LAKE. 


77 


thoughts are mine. I will not let you shut yourself 
up and dream.” 

She tried to protest against this restriction, but he 
closed her lips with a kiss. 

“ No more dreaming,” he reiterated. “ I mean to 
absorb your very mind into mine. Do you know, I 
could not bring myself to speak out sooner? You 
seemed determined to keep me off, and I got savage 
and miserable. Only yesterday I felt furious because 
of your coldness. But you are worth it all, my own. ” 

“ Let us go back to the house now,” she said, gent- 
ly disengaging herself from his clasp. “We have 
been away from grandma too long.” 

“I shall always love this little island, Tracy.” 
He rose reluctantly. “We must come here again 
very soon. I don’t know why you are in such a 
hurry to go: girls are always restless, I suppose. 
Just wait one moment longer, dear, and tell me again 
that you love me. ” 

It must have been a hard heart that could resist 
the half-boyish earnestness of his entreaty. For the 
first time in his life he was under the spell of a 
genuine passion; and as he stood looking at her, his 
face eager and radiant, she felt that it was a glorious 
thing to be so prized. 

“I do love you,” came from her lips softly and 
gratefully. “And I will always try to make you 
as happy as you are now.” 

Mrs. Taunton was sitting in the library at Wood- 
court, and trying to keep up a conversation with the 
rector, who was unusually fidgety that day. Instead 
of sitting peacefully in an armchair, and devoting 
himself to his old friend, he wandered about the 
room, pulling down books and putting them up 
again ; then took to gazing absently at the portrait of 
a man in armor over the carved chimney-piece, and 
finally walked to one of the windows and became 
absorbed in a view of the grounds. 

■* Sweet, peaceful old place,” said grandma with a 


7 » 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


sigh of content. “Where are our young people, I 
wonder? It takes some time to get to the island, 
does it not? I hope there will be no more plunges 
into the lake. Tracy will not soon forget the day 
when she came in here drenched from head to foot.” 

“Neither shall I forget it,” murmured the rector 
at the window. 

“What a beginning to a love-affair!” remarked 
Mrs. Taunton, more to herself than to him. “ How 
I lectured her afterward ! But all’s well that ends 
well, and you know I always felt sure that they were 
made for each other. He is a dear fellow.” 

Mr. Lazelle was still looking across the flower- 
beds to a long path that ran on and on between hedges 
of clipped yew, and widened out at length into a 
green glade and a dim vision of shining water. 
They would return to the house by this way, he 
though. And there could be only one result of that 
tete-a-tete on the island; he had felt this when he had 
seen them go away together ; yet he stood there at 
the window in silence, hoping against his convic- 
tion. 

Many a year had gone by since he had stood at 
another window in another house, watching for a 
girlish figure on a certain sunshiny afternoon. Then 
he had looked out, not on flower-beds and yew 
hedges, but on gray stone flags and an old Gothic 
arch that opened into one of the by-ways of an ancient 
town. Some one within the room was saying that 
Nelly was later than usual, when suddenly the girl 
emerged from the deep shadows of the arch, a slim, 
graceful shape in a white gown, with some blue rib- 
bons fluttering about her. But she was not alone; a 
young man, tall and straight and soldierly, was by 
Nelly’s side, and something that he had said had 
called a rose-flush into her cheeks, and a new light 
into her gentle eyes. 

That was the ending of Mr. Lazelle’s first and last 
love dream. Nelly, uncertain of herself, had shyly 


BY THE LAKE. 


79 


encouraged the quiet curate, and found a pleasure 
in his attentions till the soldier crossed her path. 
She came in radiant that day after listening to the 
declaration of her hero; but, to do her justice, she 
had never realized the strength of the curate’s attach- 
ment ; nor did she, to the last hour of her life, ever 
guess how sharply she had made him suffer. 

There was still another picture which memory had 
to show the rector as he stood at the library window. 
It was a moonlight picture ; in the background was 
the Gothic arch; and in front, her figure illumined 
by the silver light, stood Nelly with a child in her 
arms, hesitating before the door of her old home. 
It was her first lover who ran to open the door and 
let her in — the poor crushed victim of man’s cruelty 
— it was his kind hand that led the deserted wife to 
her father’s fireside again. 

The rector passed his hand across his eyes as if to 
shut out any more of memory’s visions. Some 
chance resemblance between Nelly’s husband and 
young Montjoyhad recalled these scenes of the past, 
and they had depressed and troubled him with vague 
foreshadowings of sorrow. Grandma, seated at her 
ease in the armchair, was not vexed with any dis- 
quieting thoughts ; but the shades were deepening 
and lengthening in the old gardens, and the golden 
light lay like a dazzling mist over the flowers and 
grass. ' 

“ Are they never coming?” she asked, after a spell 
of silence. 

Mr. Lazelle removed his hand from his eyes, and 
looked out again. 

“ They are coming now,” he answered. 

In a few minutes more they entered the room, 
bringing in a waft of fragrance from the flowery 
walks through which they had passed. Tracy, in 
a soft gray gown, wore a cluster of scarlet geranium 
in her bodice; her cheeks had a tinge of rose; her 
black hair curled in little rings and tendrils under a 


So 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


plumy dove-colored hat. With that shy, sweet look 
on her face she was almost like a child, and she 
crossed over to grandma’s chair with a kind of gen- 
tle hesitation which was new in her. 

“ We have been out a long time,” she began to say 
timidly. 

“We have settled something, Mrs. Taunton,” said 
Mont joy with a ring of exultation in his voice. 
“ Don’t scold me for not speaking to you first; I was 
desperately anxious to know my fate. I couldn’t 
rest, you know, till Tracy had put me out of my 
misery. It’s all right, and now I hope you’ll re- 
ceive me graciously as a future grandson. ” 


CHAPTER X, 


THE OLD HERO. 

“Do you wonder that my picture 
Has become so like a friend? 

It has seen my life’s beginnings, 

It shall stay and cheer the end. ” 

— A. Procter, 

The September sunshine had faded into a sad, gray 
evening, and even Mrs. Taunton felt the influence of 
the gloom which had settled over the landscape, 
She seemed instinctively to respect Tracy’s desire 
for silence. The girl had done all that she had 
wished her to do ; suspense and doubt had come to an 
end; grandma could afford to rest and let Tracy 
meditate in peace. 

Upstairs, in the room which Tracy called her 
studio, a lamp was burning dimly under a transparent 
green shade. She could see the figure of Douglas 
outlined faintly in the subdued light, and, yielding 
to one of her old impulses, she went straight to the 
picture. Then she raised the shade, turned up the 
wick, and illuminated the dying knight with a sud- 
den radiance which seemed to impart a new beauty 
to his face. 

As she stood and gazed at this hero of her girlhood, 
all her old dreams of what heroism really was came 
slowly back. There was no glory like this divine 
glory of self-sacrifice; but something whispered that 
she had given up her ideal hero, and had nothing 
more to do with him now. Yet she did not cease to 
revere him as the true knight, the brave soul that 
could renounce every earthly good for the sake of 
6 Si 


82 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


the cause he counted noblest and best. .She had 
never cared anything about the queen whom he had 
served and worshipped. Even as a child she had 
realized that, like Blondel, 

“ ’Twas the kingship that failed in himself he was seeking." 

And without that intense ) r earning to serve some- 
thing higher and better than himself a man is but] a , 
poor creature, thought Tracy, with a half-suppressed 
sigh. 

Why was this parting with a being created by her 
own imagination so painful? She had been in love 
with her knight so long that he had become one of 
the rulers of her life; and now she had broken the 
links that had bound her to him for years. As she 
stood there, alone in the lamplight, she was con- 
scious of a strange feeling of unfaithfulness. It was 
as if she had severed the mysterious tie that existed 
between herself and a kindred spirit, unknown and 
yet well known. And somehow, the child who had 
once held communion here with her dream-friend 
was happier than the woman who had just won the 
heart of a titled lover. 

But what if it were possible, after all, for the 
dream-friend to be the true love! It is a difficult 
thing, in this world of half-lights, to tell which is 
the phantom and which is the reality. Are not the 
things which we grasp and handle the very things 
which deceive us most? 

Thoughts like these came stealing into Tracy’s 
mind as she stood and gazed at the picture. By 
and by, when she was married, and went to live at 
Woodcourt, she must leave this old engraving be- 
hind; it was not valuable enough to find a place 
among the works of art which the Mont joys had 
accumulated there. But just for a little while it 
would be hers still. For a little longer she might 
shut herself into this familiar room, and talk to 
Douglas as she had talked to him in years gone by. 


THE OLD HERO. 


83 


As the evening darkened, a deeper sigh from the 
wind swept through the open window; and there 
were weird rustlings and whisperings in the ivy 
which grew thickly over Mrs. Taunton’s old house. 
The gloom grew heavier, and the trees looked inky- 
black against the solemn sky as they swung to 
and fro. Tracy felt as if all things shared in the 
depression which was fast creeping over her own 
heart. 

Her thoughts went back again to the days when 
she had entertained invisible guests in this old spare 
chamber, and had prattled about fairies to the sun- 
set. Then the creepers had nodded as if they 1 istened, 
and the wind, in its own soft fashion, had told its 
stories too. Even when the breeze and the rain 
made a confusion of sighs and whispers, she had not 
felt afraid to stay up there alone and let the wet 
leaves touch her face. But now everything was 
changed, a new influence was upon her, curbing her 
fancies, checking the old, free delight, in the flights 
of the imagination. 

No doubt, she thought, the first feeling after an 
engagement was the consciousness of a fetter; all 
girls, she supposed, felt this ; but of course the sense 
of peace and content would come later on. Mean- 
while her mind was in a half-timid state, clinging to 
the past and fearing these new ties which bound her 
to an untried future. It comforted her, however, 
to know that grandma was going to bed in raptures. 
Surely anything that had made the dear old lady so 
happy must be very right. 

And then, too, how absurd to be indifferent to her 
own wonderful good fortune ! She recalled the hand- 
some, proud face that had softened with a look of 
tenderness, and thrilled at the thought of being loved 
so well. The girl, rich in noble impulses, felt that 
she must bring out the best treasure from the store- 
house to repay such a great devotion. 

“ I shall be very happy when I wake up to-mor- 


8 4 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


row," she thought, as she closed the window. “A 
night’s sleep will clear my brain, and I shall fully 
realize all my blessings when I get up. Dear old 
grandma is often right ; she always said I confused 
myself with day-dreams. And Alfred means to put 
an end to day-dreaming. Well, he must have his 
own way, of course ; and I dare say I shall develop 
into a practical woman. There will be a great deal 
of work to do; my new life won’t be a lazy life." 

She turned away from the window just as the first 
drops of a heavy shower came dashing against the 
panes. The lamplight was shining on the pictures, 
finished and unfinished, at which she had worked so 
lovingly in her quiet mornings, and she remembered 
all Mr. Lazelle’s kindly criticisms and predictions 
of success. Grandma was not a rich woman ; Tracy 
had never expected to have a fortune, but had always 
thought of her future life as the life of a hard-work- 
ing artist. Already she had earned money enough 
to pay for most of the pretty things that she wore. 
The water-lilies had been utilized, and would appear, 
with appropriate verses, on the pages of a gift-book 
published by an art firm. She might paint and 
draw still when she became Lady Montjoy; but the 
need for labor would be ended. 

Again she congratulated herself on her good for- 
tune, and thought how true and disinterested was 
the love that she had won. 

After one more glance round the studio she turned 
down the lamp, and crossed the passage to her bed- 
room. And then, wondering still what the waking 
to-morrow would be like, she fell asleep, and rested 
as quietly as a child. 

The next day dawned fresh and glorious after a 
night of rain; and the soft air that entered through 
open windows was rich with the sweet scent of drip- 
ping leaves. There was a mellow light in the sun- 
shine which told that autumn had come at last, 
stealing over the land in the night-time. Tracy sat 


THE OLD HERO. 


85 


up in bed, and felt the kiss of the warm morning, 
realizing that everything would wear a new aspect 
now. Nothing looked the same as it had looked 
before she had engaged herself to Alfred Montjoy; 
and perhaps the most striking of all the changes 
was in Barbara, who bustled about the room in such 
an obsequious manner that Tracy felt inclined to 
hit her. 

Already grandma had told the news, and Barbara 
was overwhelmingly deferential. She eyed Tracy 
in a sidelong, submissive fashion, as if she feared 
that her young lady would pay her back for all her 
old worryings and lecturings. She could not forget 
that she had commented in disrespectful terms on 
Miss Tracy’s hasty method of darning stockings. 
On several occasions she had expressed her opinion 
of Miss Tracy’s naughty ways with a freedom which 
was terrible to think of. All the dreadful things that 
she had said in her blind ignorance of the future came 
back to harass her now, and she was afraid even to 
utter a word of congratulation. 

“ Barbara, what makes you amble so?” asked 
Tracy, with genuine astonishment. “ Have you been 
breaking any of grandma’s china cups again? If 
so, you won’t mend the matter by prancing round 
and round my bed.” 

Then Barbara, struggling against her fears, en- 
deavored to say something appropriate to the occa- 
sion; and Tracy, checking an impulse to laugh at 
her, received the awkward speech with graciousness. 
She must adapt herself to her new life ! The old 
unrestrained girlhood was gone, and all at once her 
heart swelled with apprehension. There were new 
duties to be revealed and brought close: there was 
the new love to be requited, the new path to tread 
to-day. 

She was happy, but not quite as happy as she had 
expected to be. Something that was not a doubt, 
but which might take that shape at any moment, 


86 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


was hiding deep in her mind, and she tried to forget 
that it was there. But when she went downstairs 
and saw Mrs. Taunton beaming at the breakfast 
table, she could not help rejoicing too. 

No one had ever seen the stately old lady so moved 
with delight. Her talk rippled on continuously like 
a joyous little stream ; there was so much to be said, 
and there would be so many people to say it to. 
Laura must be written to at once, and must be asked 
to come and stay with them for a few days, if she 
could be spared from her home. 

“We must not let her imagine that she is slighted, ” 
said grandma, out of the fulness of her content. 
“ Of course, poor thing, she must feel as if a great 
gulf had opened between you two; and it will be 
your part to bridge it over. I cannot help the differ- 
ence in the two matches. She would marry Frank 
Dawley, and I am sure I never encouraged him. 
Some girls lose their heads when they get a lover; 
that was just the case with Laura: she never stopped 
to think if he was the right man, but rushed with 
him straight to the altar at once.” 

“There is a great deal of good in Frank,” Tracy 
remarked. “ And they get on together very well. ” 

“Oh, yes; but he is a little uncouth sometimes,” 
said Mrs. Taunton. “ I wonder what Sir Alfred will 
think of him?” 

“Does it matter what Sir Alfred thinks of him?” 
Tracy asked. “ He will not have much to do with 
Laura’s husband. Nothing will ever change my 
opinion of Frank; he is a kind-hearted fellow.” 

“But if Sir Alfred happens to take a dislike to 
him, you must not be his champion, my dear.” 

Tracy laughed, but her cheeks flushed suddenly. 
“Oh, Frank doesn’t want any champion,” she said 
lightly. “ He is happy enough not to care too much 
what people think. I don’t suppose he will stand 
in awe of Sir Alfred.” 

“ Tracy, I hope— I do hope that you will not make 


THE OLD HERO. 87 

light of Sir Alfred’s position. You must always 
maintain his dignity in these Radical days. ” 

“ I am a Radical, grandma,” rejoined Tracy calmly. 
“ I told Alfred so last week.” 

Mrs. Taunton aged five years in a moment. She 
sank back in her chair with a groan. 

“ Tracy,” she said at last in a deep contralto voice, 
“ why will you trifle with your happiness? If you 
repeat that dreadful assertion, you may lose him 
altogether.” 

This time Tracy’s laugh was unequivocal. She 
was very much amused. 

“O grandma, you talk as if he was something 
slippery that would slide away if I did not hold it 
fast! If I do lose him, you may be quite sure it 
won’t be because I am a Radical ” 

“Let us return to Laura,” said grandma briskly. 
“ As I was saying, you or I must write to her to- 
day ” 

“ Then you shall write. ” Tracy came to the old 
lady’s side, and arranged her cap-ribbons with little 
caressing touches which were not without effect. 
“ If I did it, I should be undignified, and she would not 
be properly impressed. I am not always to be 
trusted with a pen; I am like the mediums who 
write things which don’t express their own thoughts 
at all. In short, I am the sport of a thousand invis- 
ible forces which possess me one after another and 
control my faculties. You, grandma, are always 
yourself. You always know what you want to say, 
and you say it. ” 

“ That is quite true, my dear. I wish you were 
more like me,” Mrs. Taunton said complacently. 

“Perhaps I shall belike you later on, who knows?” 
and Tracy left her with a kiss. 

She ran away upstairs to the studio, and shut her- 
self in. What sort of world would the world be now? 
Things were forcing themselves upon her one after 
another; her own little sphere, in which she had 


88 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


been living peacefully, had been bToken into, and 
was hers no more. There were some richly colored 
leaves, in a china bowl, waiting to be studied ; and 
she put them into a favorable light, and sat down to 
draw. 

For a little while she worked, trying jto recapture 
the old pleasure in her occupation. The leaves were 
to form a margin for a graceful figure of Autumn 
— a woman in a russet robe, carrying red apples in 
the folds of her gown — but after putting in a few 
touches she flung the pencil aside. Then she got 
up, and stood before the picture of her knight. 

“I cannot leave you behind,” she said, “when I 
go to a new home. There must be a nook some 
where to hold my first hero in my house and in my 
heart.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


ST. MONICA’S. 

“And again to the vaulted church I went, 

And I heard the same sweet prayers, 

And the same full organ-peals upsent, 

And the same soft, soothing airs ; 

And I felt in my spirit so drear and strange, 

To think of the race I ran, 

That I loved the lone thing that knew no change, 

In the soul of the boy and the man.” 

— A. C. Coxe. 

It was one of those golden afternoons in October 
which idealize the crowded streets of the city ; a day 
when lanes and alleys open out into narrow spaces of 
rich light, and the dome of St. Paul’s lifts itself 
solemnly into a sun-colored haze. The pigeons 
that nestle among the cornices and soot-begrimed 
ornaments of the great cathedral were flying in flocks 
over the trees and green grass on the eastern side. 
Mr. Lazelle, turning away from the bustling crowds, 
went in through the open gates and stood beside the 
fountain. Down came the pigeons with soft flapping 
and fluttering, some of them perching on the edge 
of the basin, some pecking at grain scattered for 
them on the ground, all perfectly at home and at 
ease among the loiterers who sat or stood in this 
serene enclosure. He lingered there for a minute 
or two, enjoying the sense of repose which never 
failed to come to him in that spot — a repose which 
was deepened by the consciousness that the throng 
and bustle were so near. 

The rector of Ferngate was a Londoner by birth, 
and the mighty church was as dear to him as to the 
89 


90 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


very birds which had made their home under its 
shadow. But if he had ever had any ambition, he 
had parted with it early in life; and, instead of 
clinging to London and its associations, he had 
gone away contentedly to the sleepy old country 
town where there were few changes and few difficult 
duties. Sometimes, when a denizen of the larger 
world came straying down to Ferngate, he was sur- 
prised to find that the rector took a keen interest in 
the onward march of the age. Mr. Lazelle might 
seem to be standing still, but he always knew that 
other people were moving. 

With his usual heavy tread he slowly ascended 
the broad steps and entered the cathedral ; and there 
he rested for a little while in the quietness and 
gloom. Then, moving deliberately across the nave, 
he came out again by another door, descended the 
steps, and plunged into the crowded thoroughfares 
once more. Still slowly and quietly making his way 
through the hurrying crowds, he walked along Can- 
non Street; and many a bustling man of business 
gave a passing look at that tall, portly figure and 
venerable face. 

Still plodding on, he passed the great railway sta- 
tion at last, and ascended the slope of the busy street 
before he crossed over to the other side. And then, 
by the closed door of an old church he stopped a 
moment, looking up at the list of services framed 
and hung outside. A smile, affectionate and satis- 
fied, played about his kindly mouth as he recognized 
the handwriting on the list ; every word was traced 
boldly and firmly, every letter was distinctly formed; 
there was not, he thought, a single indication of 
weakness. 

“ Everything that he does is well done,” he said 
to himself. “ Even his writing shows the pains- 
taking character of the man; yes, and the sweetness 
of his nature, for there are no sharp turns and ugly 
angles. I may well be proud of my boy. ” 


ST. Monica’s. 


9i 


He turned into a narrow passage running between 
the side of the church and a row of dark warehouses 
and back-doors, and opening out into a triangular 
space. Here was all that remained of the old church- 
yard of St. Monica’s ; a grimy garden protected by 
iron railings, and kept in such decent order that the 
green things growing there did really manage to 
flourish to a certain extent. The ferns, which had 
made a brave struggle for existence, would hardly 
have been acknowledged by their kinsfolk in the 
country; and as Mr. Lazelle gave them a passing 
glance he thought of the plumy fronds that feathered 
out luxuriantly over the wayside banks at home. 
A flagged path, dividing the garden into two parts, 
led straight to the door of a high house distinguished 
from its neighbors by an oriel window over the 
entrance. London smoke had already given quite a 
venerable aspect to this house, and yet it had only 
been built a few years. 

The outer door stood open, as a rule, all through 
the day; but the inner door was kept closed, and 
was provided with four panes of glass, which ad- 
mitted light into the dark entry, and afforded the 
housekeeper a glimpse of callers before she let them 
in. When the rector rang the bell the face of a rosy 
old woman appeared behind this little window. 

“Mr. Linn is not in at present, sir,” she said, in 
answer to his inquiry. “ But he’ll come home at 
five, and then I shall take up tea. Won’t you go 
upstairs and wait, sir? It’s past four.” 

Mr. Lazelle hesitated. To tell the truth, the day 
was so fine that he regretted going indoors. But he 
had walked a good way, and his limbs reminded 
him that he was no longer a young man. 

“I feel I have a pair of legs,” he said, entering. 
“ Ah, Mrs. Deale, I never thought about my legs ten 
years ago!” 

A dark staircase led up to the room which Wilmot 
Linn used as a study and sitting-room in one. In 


92 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


the oriel window overhanging the garden was a 
writing-table covered with papers, and in front of it 
stood the only easy-chair. There were many books 
but no ornaments ; and although the apartment was 
comfortable, its appointments were severely plain, 
and seemed to speak of the simple tastes and ascetic 
habits of its occupant. 

Mr. Lazelle sat down in the solitary easy-chair, 
and leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction. Even 
here the golden glory of the afternoon had not quite 
departed, and he could see a faint glow above the 
tall roofs of the neighboring houses. The outlook 
was not very inviting in its aspect ; below was the 
dingy garden with all its grave-yard associations, 
and beyond it rose the north wall of the church, with 
scarcely a foot of its gray stone seen through the 
sooty blackness which had been gathering over it 
for years. And yet, if St. Monica’s had been staring 
white it would have offended the eye of the gazer; 
it stood up, dignified by its sable drapery, in as dim 
a nook as could well be found in the deep heart of 
the great city. 

The rector leaned his head on the stuffed back of 
the chair, lost in contemplation. Then, after a little 
while, he looked slowly round the room, as if to see 
if it had any new features to present to his notice. 
But there was nothing new. Two or three men’s por- 
traits hung over the mantel-piece, and a photograph 
of himself occupied a conspicuous position. No 
fair girl’s face anywhere; no trifling indication of 
any interest in women or their ways; not even a 
love-song among the music-sheets lying on the top 
of the piano. 

“ He has devoted himself to his work, body and 
soul,” said the rector to himself. “ Two-and-thirty 
to-day — an age when most men cease to be prodigal 
with their affections. I wonder whether he will 
ever permit himself to fall in love again! But 
there are loves that burst unexpectedly into flower 


st. monica’s. 


93 


in the autumn of life, just when we have given up 
all thought of seeing such blossoms. A deep na- 
ture, like Wilmot’s, is capable of taking us all by- 
surprise. ” 

From thinking, the good rector drifted gradually 
into dreaming; his eyes closed, and he fell into a 
placid sleep. 

The opening of the door aroused him, but not 
with a start. Wilmot Linn was a man who always 
moved gently and deliberately; accustomed to go 
into the presence of sickness and sorrow, he had 
acquired that rare guietness of manner which brings 
repose instead of breaking it. A certain fine instinct; 
which never deserted him, had told him that his 
old friend was dozing in the easy-chair, and he had 
entered so softly that Mr. Lazelle did not fully awake 
till Wilmot was standing by his side. 

The vicar of St. Monica’s was, as has been said, 
thirty-two years of age ; his face was pale and very 
striking, though not handsome according to rules. 
Taken singly, not one of his features came up to 
a moderate standard of perfection, yet the counte- 
nance was a most attractive one. His eyes, sad, but 
steadfast, were deep-set, and shaded by black lashes ; 
and so swiftly did they change from blue to gray 
that no one could pronounce a decided opinion on 
their color. The mouth indeed might be called 
beautiful in its delicate chiselling; but the lips 
were perhaps too thin, and the square jaw and 
clean-cut chin gave the impression of an inflexible 
will. The dominant trait was a strong intellectuality, 
and the face in repose was almost stern in its high 
and noble calmness. But to see Wilmot Linn smile 
was to love him. That smile, sweet as summer, 
persuasive as a sunbeam, made you forget at once 
that you had ever thought him cold. 

Mr. Lazelle, now wide awake, looked up at the 
tall, commanding figure beside him, and spoke with 
3 ring of hearty feeling in his tone ; 


94 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“Well, Wilmot,” he said, “I am here to wish you 
many happy returns of the day.” 

“ You have made this birthday happy by coming 
to me,” Wilmot answered gratefully. 

He spoke in just the kind of voice which one would 
have expected to hear from him, calm and sweet, 
and with a remarkably distinct utterance. 

The housekeeper entered, bringing a lighted lamp 
into the room, and a little maid in a prim white 
cap and apron followed with the tea-tray. When 
the blinds were drawn down and the servants had 
gone out, Wilmot began to fill the cups; and the 
rector, turning his chair toward the table, sat and 
watched him. 

“ One feels the need of a woman’s presence at a 
tea-table,” he remarked, as Wilmot handed him a 
cup. “ Do you mean still to persist in leading this 
lonely life? Is there no shadow of turning?” 

“I am contented,” said Wilmot quietly. “What 
more would you have?” 

“ But the heart has its needs, Wilmot. Are you 
not conscious of a void?” 

“Yes.” The steadfast eyes were turned upon Mr. 
Lazelle with an intensity of expression which arrested 
his attention at once. “ But I will walk alone all 
my days rather than choose the wrong companion. 
Remember my early mistake. ” 

“It was a very common mistake, my dear boy,” 
said the rector earnestly. “ Eloise was beautiful ; 
and she had, too, the nameless grace which is more 
attractive than beauty. I have only seen one woman 
as graceful as she was.” 

“And I have never seen one,” replied Wilmot 
calmly. “ She was gifted with a peculiar witchery 
of look and movement which haunts my memory 
still. It was the charm of the born actress — the 
power of simulating the highest kind of emotion. 
She was always false in feeling, and always true in 
expression. ” 


st. monica’s. 


95 

“ Is it possible that you have never forgiven her?" 
the rector asked. 

Wilmot Linn laughed gently. 

“I forgave her long ago," he answered. “Just 
run over the details of the story in your mind. 
Remember the consummate skill with which she 
blindfolded me while she was captivating Lord Win- 
terburn; it was not until the captivation was com- 
plete, you know, that she unbound my eyes. After- 
ward — well, afterward he rejected her, and she went 
on the stage. You remember her triumphs and suc- 
cesses — the laurels were fairly won, and she deserved 
them all ; not less did she deserve the wealthy hus- 
band who had loaded her with diamonds. I saw her 
in the park last July, smiling, satisfied, beautiful 
still. Eloise is anything but a failure." 

“I have no patience with that woman,” said the 
rector, with unusual irritation. 

“ I have," rejoined Wilmot, in his quietest tone. 
“ She had certain cravings, and she has satisfied 
them. And I am grateful to her for setting me free 
— more grateful than words can say. The glamour 
of her witchery would not have lasted long; and 
I must have married her, enchanted or disenchanted, 
if she had not deserted me. When I think what 
life might have been with her, I feel that there are 
blessings hidden in loneliness." 

“And you have your work," Mr. Lazelle said. 
“ You have built your heart into the stones of old 
St. Monica’s." 

“Not into the dead stones," the vicar replied; 
“ but into the living stones, yes. My boys and girls 
fill every hour of my life ; the children of St. Monica’s 
must be as ‘the polished corners of the temple.’ 
Come into the church with me this evening, and see 
them putting the last touches to the decorations for 
the harvest festival. ’’ 

“ I shall be glad to come, Wilmot." 

“I was your boy, you know," Linn went on. 


THROUGH pain to peace. 


96 

“What should I have been without your helping 
hand?” 

“ There would have been other helping hands, Wil- 
mot. You were predestined to rise, sooner or later.” 

“ I might have had to wait a long time if you had 
not raised me,” said the vicar, with that rare smile 
of his. “ And I love to help others as you helped 
me. What a mistake it is to be always looking 
inward instead of outward! If we really want to 
know what we are, we must turn to the lives that are 
nearest to us, and see ourselves reflected in them. A 
month’s fasting and meditation in a lonely cell would 
not teach me as much of myself as I can learn in half 
an hour from these young men and maidens who are 
committed to my charge.” 

The gray house with the oriel window was known 
in the neighborhood as the Clergy House, and here 
lived Wilmot Linn with two young curates, and a 
youthful organist trained by himself. Not one of 
them had taken any vow of celibacy, nor did the 
vicar impose any stern restraint upon his fellow- 
workers. He always looked forward to a possible 
future, not far distant, perhaps, when his companions 
would fall in love and get married, and live else- 
where. He was a man who encouraged love-making 
and matrimony; only, as he often said, he wanted 
his couples to be “divinely married.” 

Mr. Lazelle had engaged a room in the great hotel 
at the railway station close at hand; but he was 
easily persuaded to dine with Wilmot Linn. Mrs. 
Deale did her best, and served up such a satisfactory 
little dinner that the good rector ceased to lament 
over the shortcomings of a bachelor household. 

Afterward, when the autumn night had settled 
down dark and chill over sleepless London, the two 
went out together through the melancholy little 
garden, and entered the old church by a door under 
the tower. 

The church was one of Wren’s, built in the Roman 
Renaissance style, and remodelled, later oh, with 


st. monica’s. 


97 


questionable taste; yet the influence of time, and 
the strong coloring of rich windows here and there, 
had done much for St. Monica’s. But now there 
were lights burning, touching the golden broidery 
on the altar cloth and shining on the organ pipes ; 
and as Mr. Lazelle moved slowly up the middle aisle, 
two or three groups of young people parted to left 
and right, and afforded him a view of their handi- 
work. Careful hands had arranged the russet wheat- 
ears, heaping up purple grapes and amber gourds 
and crimson apples, blending them with delicate 
wreaths and clusters of autumn leaves. 

Wilmot Linn stood among “his children,” as he 
loved to call them, and there was a peculiar radiance 
and sweetness on his face. His was not a maimed 
life; he was free to use all the forces within him, 
free to answer the call of every divine motive; the 
soul, unfettered by any irksome earthly tie, had 
chosen the atmosphere it loved best. And his oldest 
friend, watching him with observant eyes, no longer 
regretted the solitary career of the man. 

“ Do you not see that my life is well ordered?” 
Wilmot said, when they were alone together once 
more. “ I know it is an old wish of yours that I 
should find a mate; but it may not be in this world 
that I shall find her. What the soul seeks it shall 
surely find, and when we come to our own we shall 
know each other.” 

“You are right,” the rector answered; and they 
parted for the night. 

When he lay down to sleep Mr. Lazelle found 
himself haunted by those last words. More than 
half of the matrimonial blunders made every day 
are due to the impatience of men and women, look- 
ing for their affinities. Better the long waiting, 
better even the lifetime of loneliness than the hasty 
choice. And Wilmot was not one of those who could 
make the best of a bad lot; he had had such a clear 
vision of. the highest, that he could not be contented 
with anything else. 

f 


CHAPTER XII. 


LADY MONTJOY’S VIEWS. 

“ I would that that you were all to me, 

You that are just so much, no more ; 

Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free ! 

Where does the fault lie? What the core 
O’ the wound, since wound must be?” 

— Browning. 

The October day, which had seemed so pleasant 
to Mr. .Lazelle in London, was unspeakably dreary 
and sad to Lady Montjoy in the country. She sat 
listlessly in the library all the afternoon until she 
was crushed down by a heavy weight of depression. 

The great house with its many empty rooms had 
become a horror to her; mysteries seemed to grow 
in the dense shrubberies outside; and behind the 
dark woods the sunset glowed with a melancholy 
crimson light. It was half-past four o’clock. Sir 
Alfred was sitting in a deep arm-chair by the fire, 
his dog at his feet, his newspaper in his hand, and 
his mother was staring absently out of the window. 

Presently she gave a long sigh and looked at him 
askance ; but his gaze was fixed oh the paper. Then 
she got up, pacing the room impatiently; and the 
rustle of her gown at last succeeded in rousing him. 

“Don’t fidget so, mother,” he said. 

“ I can’t sit still when I am restless and anxious,” 
she answered with another sigh. 

He glanced up raising his eyebrows slightly. 

“ It seems to me, mother, that you are unreason- 
able,” he remarked. “ There is no neeij for anxiety. ” 
J There was a pause ; a flame shot suddenly from 
9 8 


LADY MONTJOY’S VIEWS. 


99 


the low fire, and the dog got up, eyed her doubt- 
fully, and curled round at his master’s feet again. 

Lady Montjoy was in a passion. Experience had 
taught her that to be in a rage is sufficient weak- 
ness, but to show your fury is to insure defeat. She 
steadied her voice, and spoke very calmly. 

“ I am afraid there is cause, Alfred.” 

There was another chair on the other side of the 
fire, and she sat down and faced him. He moved a 
little uncomfortably in his seat. 

“ I suppose you think I have been spending too 
much money,” he saicq dropping the paper, and 
passing his hand across his forehead. “ The im- 
provements have cost a good deal, I’ll admit. But it 
wouldn’t have been possible to live here without 
them.” 

“ It would have been impossible, for instance, to 
live here without building that romantic new cottage 
on the lake,” she observed, with quiet bitterness. 

Sir Alfred colored. Then he leaned forward in his 
chair, and pulled the dog’s ears uneasily. 

“ Supposing the cottage to be a bit of sentimental 
extravagance, what then?” he asked. “Everyman 
commits some folly when he falls in love.” 

She was silent. He looked up and saw her sitting 
calmly before him in her widow’s weeds. She was 
a handsome woman still, looking ten years younger 
than her age: upright and tall, with clearly cut 
features, and teeth that were still beautiful ; and on 
her face was stamped indelibly that quiet pride 
which had outlasted the fleeting expressions of youth. 
Sir Alfred admired his mother; he had always, even 
when a boy, been proud of her. Her vigor and 
beauty had shone out beside his father’s weakness 
and sickliness. 

“Something has upset you,” he said, breaking the 
pause. “ I thought you would get accustomed to 
the old place, and learn to like it. We used to dream 
of these days when we were wanderers abroad.” 


IOO 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“ Not of these days, Alfred. ” Her voice trembled. 
“ Not of any days like these.” 

He looked at her a little wonderingly, and then at 
the fire, as if he were considering a problem. 

“I wish you had come earlier,” he said sud- 
denly. “There is a melanchoty look about the 
grounds now; and you are not used to an English 
autumn.” 

Lady Montjoy did not change her position. She 
still sat upright in the chair, one white hand resting 
on its arm, the other lying i$ her lap. 

“I wish I had come earlier,” she repeated slowly. 
“ Yes, Alfred, I do wish it indeed. If I had- been 
here sooner I should have seen that you were being 
entangled and have given you a warning. But 
there was no one to warn you.” 

Sir Alfred kicked the dog away, and got up. She 
had expected him to take fire, and was prepared. 

“Now look here, mother,” he began. 

“ Look here ” was always the beginning of one of 
his rare bursts of eloquence. He cleared his throat, 
and went on : 

“ If you had been here sooner I should have fallen 
in love with Tracy all the same. My hour was come 
I suppose. There was no entanglement in the case ; 
I just saw her, and lost my heart at once, that’s all. 
I dare say you think that I fell in love because the 
place was dull, and I had nothing to do; but if I 
had met her in a crowd I should have done the same 
thing. A man’s mother is pretty nearly sure to 
hate the girl he loves; but I thought you would be 
more sensible than most mothers. Understand this 
— and it will spare us all future arguments — that 
nothing which you can say will change my feeling 
about Tracy.” 

He was as fiery and resolute as she had thought 
that he would be. When he had finished his speech 
he sat down in the easy-ehair again, and sank back 
with the air of one who had settled a troublesome 


LADY MONTJOY’S VIEWS. 


IOI 


matter. The collie, too, seemed to think that there 
would be no more disagreements, for he came back 
quietly to his old place at his master’s feet. 

“You are your own master, Alfred,” Lady Mont- 
joy said, in a tone of resignation. “ I do not dispute 
your right to please yourself; but, as a mother, I 
may surely claim the right of telling you what I 
think of your choice.” 

“ It won’t make any difference,” he declared in a 
voice that was half fretful and half weary. “ On 
the whole, mother, I thought you received the news 
of my engagement very well. Why are you going to 
be disagreeable when it’s too late?” 

“ Because I see many things which you cannot and 
will not see,” she answered. “Because I know you 
better than you know yourself. You will get tired 
of the woman you marry — nothing will alter that, 
and therefore you may as well marry Lady Cathe- 
rine Dare as Tracy Taunton.” 

“ If you persist in talking nonsense, mother, I shall 
go out of the room. ” 

“Don’t go just yet, my dear boy; listen to my 
‘nonsense’ patiently for a few minutes, and then I 
will hold my peace. ” 

Lady Montjoy spoke in a pleasant fashion. She 
had got herself well in hand now, and was not to be 
turned from her purpose by any angry speeches. 
Alfred looked up, and met the good-humored gaze 
of her hazel eyes — eyes which were not so melan- 
choly as his own, although his were like them in 
shape and color. He settled himself in his chair 
with sulky submission. 

“ You know that Lady Catherine came home under 
my care,” she went on. “ I left her safely with her 
people, and we had a good deal of talk about you. 
I am sure that you would have been very well re- 
ceived in that quarter. Don’t get irritated, Alfred; 
it is pleasant to an old woman to see that her son is 
appreciated.” 


102 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“You are not an old woman yet, mother/’ he said, 
somewhat mollified. j 

“ I won’t bore you by describing my feelings when j 
I came here,” she continued. “I had only been in I 
this house an hour or two when you told me that 
you were engaged, and ” 

“ I wanted to get it over,” he interrupted. 

“Yes; I can understand that. You were quite 
righ t ; I liked your straightforwardness, ” Lady Mont- 
joy said affectionately. “ But, O Alfred, do forgive 
me for saying that I was disappointed ! If you put 
the matter seriously to yourself, can you not see 
that you are really doing a most romantic thing? 
Could any reasonable being have expected that Miss 
Taunton would secure such a prize?” 

“ Well, mother, she is really a very uncommon 
girl. The girls who attract men are very seldom 
appreciated by their own sex. You never can imag- 
ine what we see to admire in the woman who takes 
our fancy. But Tracy has a peculiar charm of her 
own. ” 

“ I do not deny the charm, Alfred. She is not a 
beauty, of course — Lady Catherine Dare is far hand- 
somer — but there is something fascinating about 
Tracy Taunton. Only I am surprised at her influ- 
ence over you. And I don’t think the marriage will 
be a success.” 

“Why should it not be a success?” Sir Alfred 
demanded. 

“ Because people who marry for love always quar- 
rel,” replied his mother calmly. “They can’t help 
it, you know. They expect too much from each 
other.” 

Her son looked at her for a moment, and a slight 
smile of amusement curved his lips. 

“It is quite true,” she said gently, inclining her 
head at him. “ Nothing wears worse than a great 
passion ; it is warranted not to stand the wear and 
tear of married life. There is profound wisdom in 


LADY MONTJOY’S VIEWS. 


103 


Mrs. Malaprop’s remark, 1 ’Tis safest in matrimony 
to begin with a little aversion. ’ ” 

“ It is a wisdom which I don’t intend to put to thu 
test,” responded Alfred, laughing. “ Why, mother, 
how long have you entertained these cold-blooded 
notions?” 

“ Ever since I became a woman of the world,” she 
answered. “ When you have had your dream out, 
my dear boy, you will be sorry that you did not take 
the girl who never attracted you. When custom has 
destroyed Tracy’s witchery, you will sigh regretfully 
after Catherine’s money-bags.” 

He laughed again, and shook his head. 

“ Remember that I don’t expect you to believe me. 
But it is a relief to a mother to tell a few plain truths 
to a son. There is one more truth which I should 
like to tell you, Alfred.” 

“Go on, mother; now that you have begun, don’t 
stop till you have said all that you want to say. I’m 
very well amused, I assure you. ” 

But Lady Montjoy did not go on at once. She 
paused, and her white jewelled fingers grasped the 
arm of the chair convulsively. She knew that there 
was one arrow left in her quiver which would not 
fail to hit the mark and rankle in the wound. 

“ Alfred, that girl does not really care for you 
There is no response to your passion. It was he 
grandmother who induced her to accept you.” 

He started from his seat with an oath, and his hand- 
some face was deformed with rage. 

“Mother, you have gone too far,” he said, in a* 
choked voice. “Tracy is not the girl to be talked 
overby anybody on earth. And she is as true as day- 
light; if she had not loved me she could not have 
told me so. ” 

Lady Montjoy was pale, but she did not lose her 
composure. 

“You must forgive me, my dear,” she went on in 
a quiet tone. “ I do not mean to insinuate that 


104 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


Tracy is untruthful. When she told you that she 
loved you she had worked herself up into that belief, 
and she is honestly trying to give you love for love. 
But she can’t change her nature, Alfred, and she is 
one of the most peculiar girls I ever met. It seems 
to me that she is always craving after some unattain- 
able spiritual companionship. I don’t profess to un- 
derstand her mind ; she soars too high for me. But 
I am sure that she undervalues all that you offer her. ” 

The truth in these words wrung an unwilling 
response from the man who heard them. It was a 
silent response; not for the whole world would 
Alfred have admitted to his mother that she was 
right. He asked her, with elaborate courtesy, if 
she had finished? And when she said that she had 
he went out of the library into the hall. A minute 
later she saw him walking down one of the long 
paths that seemed to open out into the sunset. 

It was just the hour when an autumn landscape 
wears its saddest aspect. Mists were rising from the 
lake; yellow leaves were dropping from the trees; 
the crimson gloom of evening was fading above the 
wood-crowned hills. Alfred recalled the sweet voice 
that had praised old Woodcourt until he had learned 
to love it. How plain it was to him now that the 
place owed its charm to her! And yet, as he paused 
by the margin of the water, an angry doubt was 
burning in his heart. Had he not been a fool to 
give so much and got so little in return? Who was 
Tracy, that she should value a Montjoy so lightly? 
He set his teeth savagely and muttered to himself 
that he would yet teach her the worth of her prize. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


MISGIVINGS. 

“And do the hours slip fast or slow, 

And are you sad or gay? 

And is your heart with your liege lord, lady, 

Or is it far away?” 

— Mrs. Craik. 

These autumn days which Lady Montjoy, always 
fuming inwardly, found so unendurable, were not 
quite peaceable to Tracy. 

The long, bright summer had died in a splendor 
of color and passion of storm, and strong winds had 
swept away the first fringes of October foliage ; but 
after the tempests there was a great calm. The days 
were still; crimson leaves pattered softly down in 
grandma’s garden ; there were quiet evenings, gray 
and golden ; and the sober tints of asters gladdened 
the desolate flower-beds. From her childhood, 
Tracy had been wont to love the fall of the leaf ; but 
now a vague unrest, was troubling the pe^ce of 
autumn. 

She knew that Lady Montjoy did not like her. 
In the carefully trained voice she could hear a grat- 
ing note ; in the cold eyes she could detect a smolder- 
ing fire of hate. Yes, of hate. Lady Montjoy was 
a woman who cherished implacable resentment when 
her plans had been thwarted, and Tracy had spoiled 
her best-laid scheme. 

Sir Alfred, to do him justice, had not suspected 
the bitterness of his mother’s disappointment. She 
had received the news of his engagement with an 
io 5 


io6 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


outward calm, which had deceived him into think- 
ing that she was satisfied. Had she not always said 
that he must marry one day? And did it greatly 
matter who the bride was, so long as she was pre- 
sentable and a gentlewoman? He was not merce- 
nary ; he had not meant to marry for money ; but then 
he had never known the want of money. Travel- 
ling about from place to place, while Woodcourt was 
going quietly to decay, he had not realized that a 
day would come when things would have to be set 
in order. He was vaguely aware that he must fill 
his position as a leading man in the county; but he 
had never thought of counting the cost of his dignity. 

As to his mother, he had not deemed it possible 
that she would quarrel with his choice. “ She is sure 
to like a girl if I love her,” he had thought with 
superb obtuseness. And in truth, Lady Mont joy, 
like the diplomatist that she was, had never given 
him a hint about the one she had selected for him. 
Her coming to Woodcourt had been deferred that 
she might take charge of Lady Catherine Dare, only 
daughter of the Earl of Harkfield by his second wife, 
a rich city heiress. On Catherine Lady Montjoy’s 
hopes were set; she would be, in every respect, a 
desirable daughter-in-law. And after putting her- 
self to a good deal of inconvenience on this young 
lady’s account, she had found that her son had 
arranged his own future without consulting her at all. 

At first she swallowed her rage, received Tracy 
affably, and Mrs. Taunton with all due civility. 
And then she had set herself to watch them both. 

By constant watching, and by dint of applying 
a hundred nameless tests known only to women, she 
had discovered two things: first, that Tracy was 
not really in love ; and secondly, that it was grandma 
who desired the match, not the girl herself. 

She resented Tracy’s indifference bitterly, even 
while she found in it a “little rift” which might be 
widened by judicious influence, and hailed it as a 


MISGIVINGS. 


107 


possible means of delivering her son from this 
undesired alliance. Tracy had presumed to under- 
value him. How dared she fail to appreciate the 
honor that he had done her? Like that luckless 
duchess whom Mr. Browning has painted for us — 

“ . . . She smiled, no doubt 

Whene’er he passed her ; but who passed without 
Much the same smile?” 

Tracy had no special smile for Alfred. She never 
gave him that indescribable look, half-shy, half- 
ecstatic, which is called into a girl’s face by the 
glance of the man she loves. But Alfred, encased 
in an armor of self-esteem, was not quick in noticing 
trifles. He had wanted Tracy more than he had 
ever wanted anything before, and she had promised 
herself to him. To have what he wanted, this was 
the law of his life. And he had been well contented 
with himself and his betrothed until his mother came 
and sowed the seeds of dissatisfaction. 

Jane Shaw’s rent was paid, and she and her family 
had moved away from Long Gardens to a small 
house on the other side of the common. The new 
dwelling seemed to agree with little Ben. He had 
got back the use of his legs, and was able to play 
with his brother on the waste land, and to bellow as 
lustily as any boy of his age. It was here that Tracy 
found him one sunny afternoon, and made him a 
sign to come to her side. He obeyed the summons 
readily enough, and she patted his cheek, saying that 
his roses were coming again. 

“ Haven’t got no roses now,” said the child, with 
a shake of his curly head. “ Left ’em all at Long 
Gardens. Only got zanthemumps. Come and look 
at ’em.” 

He put his little warm hand into hers, and led 
her proudly across the uneven ground to the new cot- 
tage. There was nothing picturesque about the 
place, and the chrysanthemums looked very poor 


108 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

after the lavish display of flowers in the other home: 
But within doors all was fresh and bright, and Jane 
came forward with ready words of welcome. 

Tracy sat down wearily in a chair by the window, 
and looked away with wistful eyes to the distant hills. 
She was always asking herself questions in these 
days, and never getting any satisfactory answer. 
Her deeper life, underlying the visible life, was 
as the troubled sea that could not rest. She had 
always seen, as she grew to womanhood, a beautiful 
thing that might possibly come to pass; but now she 
had lost sight of it altogether. She had put it away 
from her with her -own hands. She had taken the 
gift that she thought was meant for her, and, in 
taking it, she had resigned her dearest dream. 

Mr. Lazelle had once said that if Tracy ever made 
some great blunder in life, she would resolutely take 
its consequences upon herself. It would not be in 
her to let another person suffer for her mistake if she 
could help it. Her time had come ; she had made 
her great blunder, and was becoming conscious of 
what she had done. But, as the rector had foretold, 
she was willing to bear her own burden. Of one 
thing she was quite certain : it was her duty to keep 
her promise at any cost. 

“ If I had never had a vision of what love might 
be,” she thought, “I suppose I should be satisfied.” 

But if she had never had that vision she would not 
have been herself at all, but just a commonplace wo- 
man, seeking eagerly for things that perish in the 
using. The heart contains its own kingdom, and 
its kings are of its own choosing. If it has high 
thoughts and pure aspirations, it calls to the highest, 
saying, “ Come and reign over me. ” 

“Miss Tracy,” said Jane sadly, “you are looking 
very tired. I hoped you would bring a brighter 
face to my new home.” 

“You moved into the new home very quickly,” 
said Tracy, looking at her with questioning eyes; 


MISGIVINGS. 


109 

“ would you not trust Sir Alfred’s promise to mend 
Long- Gardens?” 

“Well, miss, you know the old shying, ‘While 
the grass grows, the horse starves. ’ And while we 
were waiting for the improvement of Long Gardens 
little Ben would have got worse and worse. We 
did what we thought right, miss, and we acted as 
the rector advised,” added Jane, making a vain 
effort to untie a knot in her apron-string. 

“ Oh, did Mr. Lazelle advise you to move?” Tracy 
asked, a faint flush of vexation coming into her 
cheeks. “He did not tell me that he had been con- 
sulted. Sometimes, Jane, I think that my old friends 
are changing: they seem to make mysteries out of 
nothings. In the old days we were all free and open 
with each other.” 

“ There always will be old days and new days, 
miss,” said Jane, with another pull at the stubborn 
string. “ And we must just make the best of both. 
But if the days change, the friends don’t. The rec- 
tor’s just as fond of you as he ever was.” 

“I don’t know.” Tracy * looked absently out 
through the open window again. “ I think he was 
fonder of the naughty little girl of the old time. 
Jane, it is not very long ago since I was twenty- 
one, is it? I suppose I lost the last bit of girlhood 
on that day when I tried to steal the lilies. Ever 
since then, I have been staggering along under a 
weary weight of womanhood and worldly wisdom. 
As a matter of fact, I am so old and wise that even 
Ben can’t make a playmate of me any more.” 

Jane tugged at the string, broke it, and impatiently 
tossed the apron away to a chair. Little Ben stood 
looking at the two women with astonished blue eyes: 
he could not tell what to make of them. 

“Ben, go and kiss Miss Tracy,” said his mother, 
with a sudden inspiration. 

The child needed no second bidding. In a moment 
he had sprung into her arms, and was pressing his 


no 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


soft cheeks to hers. Tears gathered in Tracy’s eyes 
as she held him close to her breast ; she felt as if 
she could unburden her heart to Ben better than to 
any one else. 

“ Grandma is so — so unsympathetic,” she said, with 
a catching of her breath. “ That is why I always 
feel foolish and break down when I come here. 
Dear grandma means well, but she talks about my 
good fortune till I am inclined to long for ill luck. 
Anything would be more tolerable than the assur- 
ance that I am envied by the whole county. Ought 
I to be all the happier because other people are 
made miserable by the thought of me?” 

“ Don’t vex yourself with unprofitable questions, 
miss,” Jane answered. “It makes my heart ache 
to see you so unlike 3murself. It’s your old freedom 
that you’re pining for, miss, you always did hate to 
be tied to anything.” 

“ But I ought to like being tied,” said Tracy. 

“The cord binds, but the magnet draws,” Jane 
spoke in a dreamy tone. “ You have held out your 
hands for the cord, but you should have waited for 
the magnet.” 

“ Why do you tell me that when it is too late?” 
Tracy asked mournfully. “ But no one’s words 
would have made any difference, I suppose. Grand- 
ma was set on it, you know ; and I dare say it will 
turn out well,” she added, getting up with the air 
of one who is resolved to make the best of every- 
thing. 

When she was gone Jane bustled briskly about the 
house, trying hard to drive out the anxious thoughts 
that crowded into her mind. Ever since that bright 
day when Sir Alfred’s figure had darkened her 
threshold she had been haunted by the fear that his 
was an evil influence over Tracy’s life. She shrank 
from the thought of contact with this young man 
who was so handsome and powerful, and her heart 


MISGIVINGS. 


Ill 


had never rested till she had housed her children 
under a roof that did not belong to him. 

Tracy went home through the waning sunshine, 
with a weary step and a saddened spirit. And then, 
when she entered the old room and met grandma’s 
smiling eyes, her soul revived. Dear grandma was 
so frankly happy ; she seemed to have renewed her 
youth. 

They sat down together at the tea-table, the old 
woman and the young one; and all the familiar 
pleasantness of home was filling the atmosphere 
around them. The fire leaped and crackled merrily 
in the twilight; out-of-doors a soft, gray mist crept 
over the garden, and the sound of wheels camb faintly 
from the highway to the town. Now and then the 
dancing firelight touched the silver teapot .and glit- 
tered on a china cup; sometimes it cast a sudden 
flash on the old mandarin sitting upon his bracket in 
a corner, ready to nod on the slightest provocation ; 
and Tracy’s glance followed the ever-shifting lights 
with quiet pleasure. . 

“O grandma, I wish we could always go on 
living like this!” she said, with a sigh. “When 
things are nice I want them to stay so. If there is 
any movement and change, it breaks up the sense of 
content. ” 

Mrs. Taunton’s brow suddenly clouded. 

“My child, how you talk! Do you forget that I 
am growing old?” she asked. “ A girl who is engaged 
to be married should set her thoughts upon her future 
home. A home with an old woman is as uncertain 
a shelter as Jonah’s gourd; it may pass away in a 
night. Your husband’s house is a surer dwelling- 
place than I can give you, Tracy.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


PALMISTRY. 

“Were you thinking how we, sitting side by side, 

Might be dreaming miles and miles apart? 

Or if lips could meet over a gulf so wide 
As separates heart from heart ?” 

— Owen Meredith. 

“‘When the line of heart is broken in several 
places,’” read Tracy aloud, “ ‘it means inconstancy 
both in love and friendship. ’ Which is the line of 
heart? I don’t think I have one; and if I haven’t, 
it’s a sign of iron will, wickedness, and cruelty. 
Anyhow, I am sure to be in a bad case, for all my 
lines cross and recross each other in a truly uncanny 
fashion. On the whole, grandma, I am sorry that 
my attention has been called to the palm of my 
hand.” 

“So am I,” responded Mrs. Taunton with a dis- 
satisfied glance at the little pink palm held out flat 
for her inspection. “ How a respectable tradesman 
like Jones can debase himself by selling a hand-book 
of palmistry, I don’t know! Does he want to make 
his customers the slaves of a degrading superstition? 
I shall talk seriously to the rector; he ought to 
interfere.” 

“Oh no, grandma, he won’t interfere. You are 
always talking seriously to him, you know, and if 
he listened he would spend his days in interfering. 
Only fancy what a stupendous nuisance he would be 
if he did! And you shouldn’t be down upon the 
1 1 2 


PALMISTRY. 


1*3 

excellent Jones. He just lets the book lie upon his 
counter, that’s all,” 

“ It is very wrong of him to let it lie there. And 
you ought not to have wasted a shilling on it, Tracy,” 
said grandma severely. 

“ I have invested in a shilling’s worth of discom- 
fort,” declared Tracy, with a rueful face. “Can’t 
you see that ‘I hold my heart in my hand,’ like the 
young woman in the poem, and I don’t know what 
to make of it? ‘If, on starting, the line of the heart 
is bi-forked, and one branch of the fork rises toward 
the Mount of Jupiter, it indicates great happiness 

of a glorious nature; but if the other branch ’ I 

seem to lose myself among the mounts, and I have 
hundreds of bi-forked branches. When every line 
is bi-forked, the study naturally becomes confusing. ” 

“You had better burn that book,” remarked Mrs. 
Taunton, with suppressed exasperation. 

“ ‘If the line of heart joins the line of life,’ ” went 
on Tracy, reading louder, “ ‘between the thumb 
and forefinger, it is a sign (if the mark is in both 
hands) of a violent death.’ Ha! it is all over with 
me, grandma; my lines do join. You will not long 
be troubled by my unwelcome presence. But, stay, 
I see a gleam of hope! I am not quite certain that 
they join in both hands. Perhaps I may be let off 
with ‘a serious, but not fatal, illness connected with 
the heart. ’ ” 

“Tracy, how can you be so absurd?” said the old 
lady, putting down her knitting to give due effect 
to her words. “ When your mind should be occupied 
with important matters, you devote yourself to the 
merest frivolities. Nowhere is Sir Alfred; I hope 
you are not going to bewilder him with that ridicu- 
lous book. Pray put it away at once.” 

But Tracy turned a deaf ear to Mrs. Taunton’s 
entreaties, and advanced to meet her lover with the 
book in one hand. The fun of teasing grandma had 
brought the old wilful light into her eyes, and the 
8 


1 14 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

faint rose-tint to her cheeks. She was the same 
enchanting little witch who had interested the rector 
and fascinated Frank Dawley years ago. That rare 
gift of spontaneous gayety, finding vent in graceful 
expression, was hers still; and as she came forward 
with her provoking smile, waving the hand-book or 
palmistry, Sir Alfred confessed to himself that he 
was as much under her spell as he had been in the 
first stage of his love affair. 

“I don’t believe in these manuals,” he said, turn- 
ing over the leaves contemptuously. “ If you really 
want to have your hand read, a true gypsy is the 
person to do it. It’s all rubbish, of course; but 
some of those gypsy fortune-tellers are awfully 
clever, and they make a good shot here and there. ” 
“What a lovely suggestion!” cried Tracy, throw- 
ing a defiant glance at Mrs. Taunton. “ Alfred, you 
will take me to the tents this very day. You know 
there is a cosy encampment in the woods, and we 
can walk there after lunch. ” 

“Tracy, I protest against this nonsense!” Mrs. 
Taunton said sternly. “ I disapprove of all fortune- 
telling ; it is an encouragement to impostors. ” 

“ But the world would be so dull without an im- 
postor or two, ” Tracy pleaded. “ I like to be imposed 
upon sometimes. And, you see, I know just enough 
about palmistry to muddle my brain; the book is 
a mistake, and it has left me in a state of bewilder- 
ing uncertainty. I am driven to resort to the gypsies. ” 
“ She will be quite safe, ” said Alfred, answering 
grandma’s anxious look. “ The gypsies have given 
up child-stealing, you know, and they are great fun. 
We have the Endons staying with us; they came 
last night, and Roche arrived early this morning, 
so we must do something to amuse ourselves.” 

“Very well,” rejoined grandma, in a tone of quiet 
resignation. “ Of course I do not wish to check any 
harmless amusements, and if you are perfectly sure 
that they won’t molest Tracy afterward ” 


PALMISTRY. 


”5 

A merry ripple of laughter cut short the sentence. 
Then Tracy kissed her, and arranged her cap-ribbons 
with the old caressing touch. And Alfred looked at 
her again, and thought that she was at her sweetest 
with that blending of archness and tenderness in her 
delicate face. 

His dog-cart was waiting at the door, and they 
drove away together in the light of a quiet Novem- 
ber morning. No wind stirred the russet leaves, 
nor lifted the thin vapor that hung over low-lying 
meadows ; it was a still day, and its stillness seemed 
to steal into Tracy’s heart, and hush her mirthful- 
ness. When her lover spoke, she gave him a smile 
and a ready answer; but the sparkle had died out of 
her eyes. He was half-vexed with the change in 
her mood. 

“ What a fitful girl you are, Tracy!” he said. 

“ I haven’t much to say for myself now, have I?” 
She looked up at him with a gentle glance. “ These 
silent days always influence me. The year is dying 
in peace, and one does not like to disturb his last 
hours, poor old year!” 

“Why is he to be pitied?” Alfred asked. “A 
twelvemonth is a long time, and he has had an 
uncommonly bright life. His sunny days have been 
many, and his storms few. Only think of the golden 
summer, Tracy, and the gift that it brought to me!” 

It was a perfect speech, uttered with that subdued 
fervor which seldom fails to win a response. But at 
that moment Tracy felt stifled, and her lips quivered 
painfully when she tried to make a reply. The 
doubt within her had leaped suddenly out of its lurk- 
ing-place, and stood up, hideous and defiant, between 
herself and the man by her side. In an instant she 
had wrestled with it desperately, and crushed it 
back into its lair. Alfred must be all the world to 
her now; there must be no regrets for the old days 
of freedom, no fears for the wearing of the new 
fetter. 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


1 16 

“A very poor gift, I am afraid,” she said softly. 
“ Don't over-value me, dear. For your sake, like 
Portia, ‘I would be trebled twenty times myself.’” 

He was satisfied with her words; they sounded 
meek and tender, and seemed all the sweeter from 
lips that sometimes uttered such proud and wilful 
things. And then, when the dog-cart turned in at 
the lodge-gate, and the November sunshine flecked 
with gold the gray stone mullions of the windows of 
Woodcourt, and illuminated the mouldering car- 
touche shield upon the eastern front of the old house, 
Sir Alfred Montjoy felt himself to be a contented 
man. On Tracy, too, the atmosphere of the old 
mansion had a potent influence. She was haunted 
by all the romantic dreams that had come to her 
under these trees; she recalled the charm that had 
invested those shaded walks and alleys in her child- 
hood. Was it not a grand thing (as grandma had 
said a hundred times) for little Tracy Taunton to be 
the future mistress of this stately place? 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE GYPSY. 

“I foresee and could foretell 
Thy future portion, sure and well ; 

But those passionate eyes speak true, speak true, 

Let them say what thou shalt do !’’ 

— Browning. 

Lady Montjoy received her daughter-in-law-elect 
with rather more than her usual suavity. 

Mrs. Endon, a widow, and an old family friend, 
had come to stay at the Court; and Alfred's mother 
had been unburdening her mind to this trusted ally. 
The process had relieved her, and made it easier to 
smile on Tracy when she came in, her pale cheeks 
freshened by the morning air, her dark locks curling 
crisply under a little gray velvet cap. Grace Endon, 
a society woman of six-and-twenty, advanced with 
that honeyed manner which so successfully covers 
the gall beneath. Tracy Taunton was not in the 
least prettier than Grace had thought; nay, there 
was not the slightest pretension to beauty in those 
irregular features; but there was a something — a 
nameless grace — a style for which Lady Montjoy’s 
description had scarcely prepared her friends. 

“ We must have lunch early, mother,” said Alfred, 
with that touch of imperiousness in his tone which 
Lady Montjoy inwardly resented. “Tracy and I 
have thought of something to amuse us all. Miss 
Endon, don’t you want to have your fortune told?” 

“Yes, that is if it could be truly told,” Grace an- 
swered. “ Of course I should like to know if any- 
thing good is coming to me.” 

117 


Il8 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

“Or anything- bad,” suggested Mr. Roche. “You 
might avoid the evil if you saw it advancing. How 
splendid it would be to dodge one’s calamities!” 

“ It’s easily done if somebody can read the lines 
in your hand,” remarked Alfred. 

“ Palmistry? Oh, I don’t believe in it in the least !” 
Miss Endon cried. “ Mamma, don’t you remember 
that Mrs. Addison, who took us all in so shamefully?” 

“It is great nonsense,” rejoined Mrs. Endon. 
“ The craze is fast dying out. ” 

“ It won’t quite die out so long as there are gypsies 
in the land,” said Montjoy. “ They’ve been at it for 
centuries, you see ; and some of them believe in it 
so tremendously themselves, that they make other 
people believe too. There was Finchley, you know; 
it was an odd thing that a gypsy was right about 
him.” 

“ What about Mr. Finchley?” Grace Endon asked. 
“ I met him once or twice at the Greshams’. He 
came unexpectedly into his uncle’s fortune, and died 
a few months afterward.” 

“ Well, a gypsy foretold all that,” Alfred answered. 
“ I was with him once at old Deane’s place in Berk- 
shire, and we were out on a common one day, when 
a swarm of gypsy kids came from their camp, and 
bothered us for pennies. Finchley caught sight of 
a pretty girl near a tent, and went to have a chat 
with her, when a gypsy mother turned up, and wanted 
to tell his fortune. He let her tell it, and laughed 
at it after it was told. She said there was money 
in his hand — a great deal of it, coming very soon. 
He was awfully hard up just then, and nothing 
seemed so unlikely to come as a fortune.” 

“ Did she foretell his death, too?” inquired Roche. 

“ She told him that the money would certainly be 
his, but that he wouldn’t enjoy it long. He asked if 
the riches would take to themselves wings and fly 
away? And she answered, ‘No, but you will.’ ” 

“ It was a good shot, that was all,” said Roche. 


THE GYPSY, 


1 T 9 

“ If you are always prophesying, some of your 
words are sure to come true," remarked Miss Endon. 
“ I dare say the fortune-teller had made more bad 
shots than good ones in the course of her career. 
Have you any gypsies in this neighborhood, Sir 
Alfred?” 

“ There’s an encampment on the edge of the woods, ” 
he replied. “ If you have no objection, we’ll walk 
there after lunch. I found Miss Taunton puzzling 
her brain with a hand-book of palmistry, and I pro- 
posed that we should try the gypsies instead of the 
hand-book. ” 

Tracy laughed slightly and made haste to defend 
herself. 

“ I was only teasing grandma, ” she said. “No one 
could be less in earnest than I was.” 

The three women were all looking at her as she 
spoke, and Lady Montjoy veiled her dislike under 
an indulgent smile. 

“ Let us go to the encampment by all means, ” cried 
Miss Endon, getting up a little enthusiasm. “At 
any rate, we shall enjoy a walk through those lovely 
woods. Isn’t it delightful to find so much foliage 
left on the trees? I am told that you are an artist, 
Miss Taunton; it is just what I have always longed 
to be. But my poor sketches quite dishearten me.” 

And the woods were beautiful indeed that day ; the 
winds had been merciful, and there were fringes of 
gold and scarlet here and there, that were right regal 
in their richness. Above all hung a sky of faint 
blue; looking through gaps in the tinted leafage, 
you caught a glimpse of dim hills, and a gleam of 
a sweet little river, wandering away to lose itself in 
the mist. 

Tracy wanted to be silent, and bravely exerted 
herself to talk. Miss Endon was an every-day young 
lady, neither pretty nor plain, neither clever nor 
stupid; she had made up her mind that it was her 
duty to detest Sir Alfred’s betrothed: first, because 


120 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


she was betrothed ; secondly, because Lady Montjoy 
had decreed that she was to be detested. But even 
Grace began to soften a little when her companion 
put out her powers, and strove to win her. With- 
out flattering her in the least, Tracy contrived to 
convey a subtle impression of finding Miss Endon 
agreeable. 

Mr. Roche was deeply interested in Miss Taunton, 
and watched her continually. He felt as if he had 
known this girl for years; in her voice and manner 
there was the naturalness of a child, blending with 
the dignity of a woman; and when she spoke, or 
looked at him, he recalled all the looks and tones 
that had been sweetest in his life. Here and there 
we find some one who possesses this rare gift — the 
power of touching certain chords within us, and 
awakening sleeping melodies. It is done without 
effort or design; the voice steals gently into our 
hearts, we know not why ; the smile warms and re- 
vives us like a sunbeam. 

They found the encampment in a glade which 
opened out upon a wide space of heath. The after- 
noon was just chilly enough for the sight and scent 
of a wood-fire to suggest comfort; there was the 
orthodox tripod with the kettle; and a group of 
several persons, standing and sitting in its immediate 
vicinity, caught the ruddy light upon their brown 
faces. A girl, handsome and slim, was keeping up 
the blaze by the addition of a dry twig or dead 
branch from time to time; and the glow shone fit- 
fully on her rough, dark hair and russet cheeks, deep- 
ening the faded scarlet of the jacket that she wore. 
There were two sullen-looking men ; a lad of four- 
teen or fifteen; some children; and two women, one 
still young, and the other past middle age. They 
all looked up, in a furtive way, as Montjoy advanced 
with his friends. 

“ Fine weather for November,” began Sir Alfred,, 
addressing the group in general. One of the men 


THE GYPSY. 


I 2 I 


grunted an assent; the girl in the red jacket gave 
him a smile which displayed her pearly teeth ; and 
the eldest of the women rose quietly from her seat 
on the ground. 

She stood upright, tall and strong, her dark face 
framed in a yellow kerchief, knotted under the chin. 
There was a dignity in her look and bearing which 
impressed Tracy at the first glance. The woman’s 
deep black eyes travelled swiftly from one young lady 
to the other, and then her gaze settled on Miss 
Taunton. 

“Will you let me tell your fortune, lady?” she 
asked, in a voice that was rich and low. 

It was a voice that was harmonious by nature, and 
she spoke in a soft, wooing tone ; but the vivid glow 
of her eyes told of untamed passions and a heart of 
fire. Years of sorrow and wandering had failed to 
quench the burning light in those eyes, and Tracy 
thought how beautiful they must have been when 
they shone out of a face rich with soft brown tints. 
The gypsy’s skin was copper-colored now, and there 
were deep wrinkles round the mouth ; but you could 
not look at her without seeing a vision of her lost 
beauty. 

Instinctively the girl stepped a little apart from her 
companions, and Sir Alfred dropped a half-crown 
into the woman’s palm. Then Tracy held out her 
ungloved right hand, and the gypsy took it tenderly 
in her dusky fingers, scanning it with a rapid glance. 

“Let me see the left hand, too, lady,” she said 
gently. In silence they stood together under the 
brown and yellow leaves, Tracy’s slender figure, clad, 
as usual, in soft gray, looking all the daintier beside 
the gaunt form and dingy garments of the sibyl. 
Miss Endon had come with the intention of treating 
the whole business as a joke; Roche was calmly in- 
different, and Montjoy had merely wanted to while 
away an idle hour. But there was something about 
that dark woman which seemed to magnetize these 


122 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


three thoughtless persons into utter quietness. Her 
manner had such a strange power that they waited, 
in grave silence, to hear her words. 

“You will send away many lovers, lady, before 
you find your true love,” said she, in a soft monotone. 
“It’s no false story that you want to hear; there’s 
the love of truth in your hand, and the poor gypsy 
must tell you true.” 

She paused, drew herself up to her full height and 
looked away, with dilated eyes, into the far distance. 
Then, bending over the little palms again, she went 
on speaking: 

“ There are glorious things in your hand ; beautiful 
things that you dream of, and some of those things 
you’ll do. There’s the power of swaying hearts as 
the wind sways the reed, and of drawing loves as the 
magnet draws the steel. You’ll have a great light 
shining on you, and then a great darkness falling on 
you. But the light will come again at the close. ” 

There was another pause. Then Miss Endon’s 
curiosity got the better of that strange awe which the 
gypsy had inspired. She drew a little nearer to 
Tracy’s side. 

“The fortune is not half told,” she said. “You 
don’t say one word about marriage. We should like 
to know whether she will be rich or poor, but we 
want to hear about the marriage, first of all.” 

The woman glanced coldly at the speaker, and 
addressed herself to Tracy again. 

“ I have said nothing about your marriage, lady, 
because there is no word to be said. I promised to 
tell you true.” 

“Oh, this is not fair!” cried Miss Endon, flip- 
pantly. “ I thought that all you fortune-tellers pre- 
dicted a speedy wedding, riches, and a long life. 
Why is she to receive such a scanty measure of good 
things?” 

“I cannot foretell what I do not read,” said the 
gypsy, in her soft, level voice, still keeping her gaze 


THE GYPSY. 


123 


fixed on Tracy alone. “ I see a great love, found 
after long waiting, and I see that the line of fate 
breaks at the line of the heart. But it is not only 
in your hand that your story is written, lady : it is 
in your face ; it shines out of your eyes. Let those 
who love the earth cling to the earth; their ways are 
not your ways, nor are their thoughts your thoughts. ” 

“This isn’t fortune-telling at all,” murmured 
Roche to Alfred Montjoy. “ But the woman is a 
marvellous actress. Where did she pick up that 
manner?” 

“ I speak not to them, but to you, lady,” the level 
voice went on. “ In the day of your great anguish 
remember the words of the poor gypsy. Fear not 
to tread a lonely path through this world. Be more 
fearful of the companionship that 'enchains than of 
the solitude that leaves you free! When your best 
is taken, look not back, but press onward! What 
the eye no longer sees the soul may still follow! 
Now, lady, I have said enough.” 

Without any parting salutation she turned, walked 
deliberately away, and was soon lost to sight in a 
narrow path which led into the woods. For a few 
seconds the four young people stood looking after 
her in silent amazement. Then Alfred, with a 
touch of annoyance in his manner, went up to the 
group still gathered round the fire. 

“That woman gives herself strange airs!” he said, 
glancing at the elder of the two men. 

The man rose, looked furtively at him out of a 
pair of shifty black eyes, and answered in a concilia- 
tory tone : 

“ It’s little enough we know of her, mister. That’s 
Esther Lee, and she comes and goes as she likes, 
without asking leave of any of us.” 

“Then she doesn’t live with you always?” said 
Miss Endon. 

“No, lady! She came last night and sat down 
among us; and now she’s gone again.” 


124 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“What do you think of the fortune-telling?” Grace 
Endon asked, with a bantering little laugh. 

There was silence for a moment. The girl in the 
red jacket laughed too, showing her white teeth 
again. Then the young woman by the tent spoke 
for the first time. 

“ Some can tell and some can’t!” she said. 

“ Do you think that Esther Lee can tell?” inquired 
Roche. 

“She’s a wise woman; but we don’t know much 
of her,” was the reply. And Tracy fancied that 
there was a general wish to put an end to the con- 
versation. 

Finding that there was really very little to be 
extracted from the gypsies, Alfred turned sullenly 
away from the c'amp, and the four friends walked 
homeward. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


SEARCHINGS OF HEART. 

“ Deeper than the gilded surface 
Hath thy wakeful vision seen, 

Farther than the narrow present 
Have thy journeyings been.” 

— Whittier. 

“ She was rather stupid, after all, ” said Miss Endon, 
as the four walked abreast through one of the wide 
woodland ways. “ She wanted to make a new sen- 
sation; but she didn’t do it at all well.” 

“ I thought she did it rather well, ” observed Roche. 

“Oh, do you think so? Now I thought she was 
absurdly tragic!” Grace Endon cried. “She would 
have impressed me more if she had been matter-of- 
fact and commonplace. If she had predicted a little 
every-day happiness I should have been almost 
tempted to believe in her. But she cut Miss Taun- 
ton off from the least hope of any earthly enjoyment, 
and only promised her a great anguish. In fact, she 
piled up the agony too high.” 

“ The woman is mad — that’s at the bottom of it 
all!” said Alfred Montjoy, switching savagely at 
the boughs with his stick. “Didn’t you notice the 
look in her eyes? One of these days she’ll become 
dangerous.” 

He spoke to Tracy, who was walking quietly by 
his side, and she looked up at him with a glance so 
calm and sweet that his irritation vanished. 

“There was a peculiar look in her eyes,” she ad- 
mitted. “I think she is one of those people who 
I2 5 


126 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


see ghosts and hear voices. They are not sane, I 
suppose ; but they are rather interesting. ” 

“ They don’t interest me. I always want to kick 
them,” said Alfred. 

“ You do not seem to be frightened by the gloomy 
picture of your future, Miss Taunton,” remarked 
Grace. “It would have made some persons quite 
ill. Nervous people are so easily upset by this kind 
of thing that I think it is a little dangerous. ” 

“Of course it is dangerous,” said Montjoy, getting 
angry again. “ I wish I hadn’t taken you near the 
rascals,” he added, turning to Tracy. 

“ But, Alfred, you knew that they did not always 
prophesy smooth things,” she answered gently. 
“You were telling us about Mr. Finchley before we 
went out, and I was promised a fair amount of con- 
solation, so it wasn’t so very bad after all.” 

“It’s nothing but moonshine!” said Roche, with 
an air of calm conviction. “ And they have a trick 
with their eyes which is very effective. I remem- 
ber a book written by some old fellow who lived 
among gypsies and studied their language and all 
their ways; his name was Barrow, I believe. He 
noticed that their eyes had a strange staring expres- 
sion, which influenced you in an odd kind of way. 
Miss Taunton’s sibyl had got exactly that look. Of 
course she was an awful old fraiid!” 

“ They are all frauds and brutes!” Alfred declared. 
“Some old Montjoy was fool enough to give them 
leave to camp on our land, and I suppose it won’t do 
to take the permission back. But if I had my will 
they should all be warned off.” 

“You are too hard on them,” pleaded Tracy. 
“What harm have they done? We need not believe 
the poor woman’s words. And we mustn’t forget 
that she did not seek us. Only think how angry 
grandma would be if she knew that we were making 
ourselves uncomfortable about fortune-telling!” 

The thought of grandma and her horror of palm- 


SEARCHINGS OF HEART. 


127 


istry made Alfred laugh ; and then, as if by magic, 
Tracy became suddenly gay. Roche looked at her 
and listened to her amusing little speeches with 
wondering delight. She was so bright that almost 
any other woman would have seemed a little dull 
beside her; and yet there was always something 
delicate and fine in her gayety. Miss Endon watched 
her with stealthy curiosity and drew her own con- 
clusions. 

“She doesn’t want us to think that the fortune- 
telling has had any effect upon her,” Grace thought. 
“ She tries to charm us into forgetting the episode. 
With the men she will possibly succeed, but nobody 
can throw dust in my eyes. She was very pale when 
the gypsy spoke of coming anguish; and yet I don’t 
think she was frightened at all. What an odd girl 
she is! I haven’t fathomed her thoroughly, but I 
am sure she is acting now. ” 

The first shades of dusk had fallen when they re- 
turned to Woodcourt, and as they turned in at the 
gates, Tracy was conscious of a deadly sense of 
weariness. Her desperate desire to sustain her part 
had tinged her cheeks with rose and given her eyes 
a feverish lustre. Just for a moment, as she walked 
up one of the long paths leading to the house, she 
was afraid of breaking down. When she spoke she 
fancied that there was an unnatural tone in her 
voice, and .wondered if the others would notice it. 
But they did not. Even Miss Endon failed to detect 
the fatigue which Tracy was so resolutely bent on 
concealing. She suspected that Miss Taunton’s 
spirit and gayety were partly sham; but she did not 
realize the effort that had been made nor the ex- 
haustion that had set in. 

They all entered the house, talking and laughing 
as if no prophetic warnings had ever sounded in 
their ears, and went straight to the library. They 
found a fire burning there and some easy-chairs 
drawn up before it. The two widows were sitting 


128 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


comfortably together, and tea had just been brought 
in. Tracy loosened her jacket rather deliberately and 
sat down, leaning back upon the cushions and find- 
ing a certain amount of languid comfort in her posi- 
tion. Alfred brought her some tea, and Roche 
placed a little table close to the arm of the chair. 
There would be a blessed interval of rest, she hoped, 
before the fortune-telling was discussed again. 

But the peace was not to last. Lady Montjoy 
began at once to ask questions. Were they satisfied 
with the result of the expedition? Had they come 
home without purses? Were the gypsies very hor- 
rid? Had Tracy’s fortune been told? 

Tracy had fortified herself with half a cup of tea. 
But it was not necessary for her to speak just then ; 
Sir Alfred eagerly took upon himself the task of 
answering. 

“They’re an abominable set!” he said. “Their 
faces are atrocious. One old fiend got half-a-crown 
out of me, and in return she looked into Tracy’s 
hand and predicted any number of mysterious 
horrors.” 

'“ Horrors?” Lady Montjoy ejaculated, “ My dear 
boy, what has the woman been saying? Tracy does 
not look any the worse for it all,” she added, with 
a glance and a smile at the girl by the fire. “ I 
think you have exaggerated.” 

“ Sir Alfred is hardly just to the poor gypsy,” said 
Miss Endon. “ In the first place he proffered the 
half-crown, and in the second I did not hear the 
faintest whisper of a horror. What I did hear was 
something about a great love found late; and an 
anguish, and a darkness, and a light. It was quite 
poetical, I assure you.” 

“ You don’t mean to tell us that a gypsy talked in 
that strain!” Mrs. Endon cried. “She must have 
been somebody in disguise.” 

“Are you serious, Grace?” Lady Montjoy asked. 
“ Let us hear what she really did say. Perhaps she 


SEARCHINGS OF HEART. 


I29 


was a religions enthusiast ; gypsies do get converted 
sometimes, don’t they?” 

“ Never!” said Sir Alfred emphatically. 

“My dear Alfred, you are too shocking!” his 
mother exclaimed. “ Now, Grace, pray go on!” 

And Grace went on, while Tracy sat still, drinking 
her tea. Miss Endon repeated the gypsy’s words 
with tolerable accuracy, but they lost all solemnity 
and poetry in passing through her lips. The two 
widows listened, ejaculated, and laughed; it was all 
done to make a sensation, they said; the woman 
had struck out into a new line. They thought it 
was rather clever of her. Meanwhile Sir Alfred 
stood leaning against the mantel-piece, with his 
gloomy eyes bent on his betrothed. 

Just then, when Grace had finished her story, 
Tracy rose to go. She looked very slender and frail 
as she stood up in the firelight ; but her air of per- 
fect composure and dignity did not desert her for a 
moment. Perhaps* it never occurred to any one save 
Roche that she had gone through rather a trying 
afternoon. It could not be pleasant, he thought, to 
hear one’s possible future so freely handled. Even 
if this fortune-telling business were all nonsense, it 
must have had some effect on her mind. But the 
quiet of her manner did not suggest repressed feeling. 
She seemed a little weary, that was all. 

“ Oh, are you really going?” said Lady Montjoy 
affectionately. “ Is the carriage here? Mrs. Taunton 
might have spared you to us a little longer.” 

“ She feels lonely in the evenings if I am not at 
home,” Tracy answered. 

Sir Alfred was hovering near his love uneasily, as 
if he felt that unseen dangers were gathering round 
her. His duty as a host forbade him to go back to 
the Laurels in the brougham by her side. He said 
something in a low voice about her solitary drive, 
and she responded with a smile which Roche thought 
charming. 

9 


130 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


No one heard her deep sigh of relief as the 
brougham moved away from the hall door. The 
November evening had come on, misty and still, and 
the air was full of the faint scent of decaying leaves, 
crossed by the fumes of peat-smoke. Tracy put 
down the window and let the damp breath of the 
night kiss her face; sighing with relief again when 
they had passed the gloomy lodge weighted by ivy, 
and were out in the dim, silent road that led home. 

The gypsy had peered into the palms of her hands, 
and had read there no sign of that wedding-day which 
was supposed to be drawing near. Could she trust 
those strange black eyes that seemed to see into her 
future? And what of that great love which was to 
be found after long waiting? 

If the sybil had spoken truly it was a light that 
would be followed by darkness; a love succeeded 
by a loss. But one day of perfect communion is 
sweeter than whole years of imperfect association. 
The lamp may be shattered, but the true light does 
not die among its fragments ; it rises and shines eter- 
nally above the mists of earth. 

“ I wonder how I shall bear a great sorrow if it 
comes?” thought Tracy, leaning back in the corner 
of the brougham. “ I have never yet known any 
sorrow worth mentioning. Nothing in a book is so 
interesting as a heavy grief. It is sorrow that colors 
and enriches a story ; and when the heroine begins 
to get over it, you generally feel that you have had 
enough of her. But if / were the heroine, how would 
it be then?” 

Lights were burning in houses and shop-windows 
as the carriage rolled through the quiet old High 
Street, and then they came to the courtyard gate, 
and Barbara’s face appeared at the open door. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


TALKING BY THE FIRE. 

“ So much for idle wishing — how 
It steals the time ! To business now. ” 

— Browning. 

When the hall door had closed on Tracy, Sir Al- 
fred suggested to Roche that they should repair to the 
smoking-room. He was still in the very worst of 
tempers, and the sound of the women’s voices seemed 
to irritate him beyond endurance. They, on their 
part, hailed the disappearance of the men with pro- 
found satisfaction. Even Miss Endon felt that all 
her little graces would be wasted if they remained. 

“ Alfred is perfectly infatuated about that girl 1” 
exclaimed Lady Montjoy, when her son was fairly 
out of hearing. “ He never was so disagreeable be- 
fore he got engaged. What a dreadful mood he is 
in ! I am positively afraid to speak to him.” 

“ It is very sad to see him so changed,” said Mrs. 
Endon with a little sigh. Every one who had ever 
known young Montjoy was acquainted with his tem- 
per, which had never been concealed from friends 
or foes. But Mrs. Endon felt that she must be sym- 
pathetic before anything. 

“Utterly changed; and it is all her doing! I 
wish he had chosen any one else!” 

As Lady Montjoy spoke she glanced across at 
Grace, who had seated herself in the chair which 
Tracy had occupied. Grace had unfastened her 
cloak and thrown it off; it was a pretty, brown 
cloak, lined with gray squirrel, and as she sat with 
I 3 I 


132 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


its folds falling luxuriously round her, she was con- 
scious that she looked very well — quite well enough 
to be Lady Mont joy’s daughter-in-law. But there 
was no self-consciousness in her face, and she returned 
the glance with the most ingenuous candor. 

“ Perhaps it will never come to anything after all,” 
she said calmly. “One can’t tell. If there is any 
truth in the gypsy’s forecasting, Miss Taunton will 
not marry, I fancy.” 

She paused. Lady Montjoy’s hand, in which she 
held the sugar-tongs and a lump of sugar, was visibly 
trembling. Her cold eyes grew curiously bright 
and eager, and a flush rose to her cheeks. 

“ Did the woman really predict that there would 
be no marriage, Grace?” she asked. 

“That was how I understood her,” Grace replied. 
“ Of course, I wanted to know why she had said noth- 
ing about the wedding, and she answered very im- 
pressively: ‘I cannot foretell what I do not read.’ 
It was rather strange, was it not?” 

“It was very strange,” Lady Montjoy responded. 

As she spoke she left the tea-table and came across 
to the fire, putting one foot on the fender and shiv- 
ering a little. 

“Are you cold?” Miss Endon asked, involuntarily. 

“ Not exactly. I had a sudden chilly feeling, that 
was all, ” she said. “ It would be absurd to put any 
faith in that gypsy creature, wouldn’t it? And yet 
those people are right sometimes ; they have a sort of 
gift of divination, I suppose. I can’t understand it 
in the least, can you?” 

A bright light shot up from the wood -fire and fell 
upon her face. Grace Endon looked at her in mute 
amazement, struck with the passionate feeling that 
it expressed. She had not thought that Lady Mont- 
joy could care very much about anything; and this 
intense dislike to her son’s betrothed seemed almost 
inexplicable. It was not unnatural, perhaps, that his 
choice had disappointed her; but what had Tracy 


TALKING BY THE FIRE. 


133 


done to be detested so strongly? Grace began to 
realize that there were depths in this woman's nature 
which she had never sounded; and yet they had 
known each other for years. 

Perhaps Mrs. Endon was surprised, too. The 
Widows had been playmates and school-fellows, and 
their early intimacy had never died out, although 
time and change had separated their lives. There 
was a quiver in Lady Montjoy’s voice which seemed 
to demand an immediate answer, and Grace did not 
quite know what to say. She felt almost afraid of 
holding out any thread of hope for her to cling to ; 
she was more than half sorry that she had repeated 
the gypsy’s words. Her mother came to her aid with 
quiet tact. 

“ I don’t think any one thoroughly understands 
divination,” she remarked in an inexpressive tone. 
“ It has been talked about and written about a great 
deal, and we find it in the Bible. ” 

“ Yes — we find it in the Bible, ” echoed Lady Mont- 
joy, catching eagerly at this commonplace sentence. 
“ So, of course, there must be something in it. And 
you were saying, Grace, that this gypsy was not at 
all an ordinary woman?” 

“Well, no; she was not ordinary,” said Grace, 
with some hesitation. “ But, really, I have never 
studied gypsies and their ways, and every one says 
that they are a very peculiar people. So that there 
may be many others like her, you know.” 

“I don’t believe that there are many like her.” 
Lady Montjoy utterly rejected the suggestion. 
“ We saw gypsies abroad, but I never took any notice 
of them; and I once visited an encampment here 
with Sir Robert soon after I was married. I am 
sure that none of them were at all like the woman 
you describe.” 

“ Mr. Roche said that she was quite remarkable,” 
observed Grace, rather feebly. “ I think he has gone 
in for gypsies; they seem to interest him.” 


134 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“ Then if he thought her remarkable, she must be 
so!” said Lady Montjoy, with repressed excitement. 
“Mr. Roche is a very sensible man; I was quite 
glad that Alfred asked him here. Really, Grace, it 
is possible that the woman does possess the power 
of second-sight! And she might have seen ” 

Mrs. Endon moved a little uneasily in her seat. 
She was afraid that her daughter might say too much. 
It would be a disastrous thing if Lady Montjoy were 
to build her hopes on such a sandy foundation as a 
gypsy’s fortune-telling. In her heart of hearts, Mrs. 
Endon firmly believed that the hated match would 
come to pass. She was a matter-of-fact woman, and 
had a profound contempt for palmistry and all other 
forms of prediction. Sir Alfred was desperately in 
love, and he was too self-willed a man to renounce 
the object of his passion at any one’s bidding. The 
gypsy had ruffled his temper; but his was a temper 
that a breath could ruffle. Mrs. Endon did not want 
him to marry Tracy, of course; she would have 
gladly seen her own daughter in Tracy’s place. But 
she was not the woman to* indulge in vain dreams 
and expectations, and she simply accepted the inevi- 
table. In her opinion, Lady Montjoy would do well 
to accept it also. Nothing was ever gained by strug- 
gling against the tide. 

Grace was not quite as calm as usual. She saw 
the danger and hardly knew how it was to be 
avoided. Yet, strange to say, she believed a little 
more in the gypsy than her mother did. Perhaps 
this was because she wanted to believe. Perhaps 
it was because she belonged to a period which has 
revived the never-extinct love of the occult. Any- 
way, although she had pretended to sneer at Esther 
Lee, she had not listened unmoved to her mysterious 
words. 

“ It was all very extraordinary,” she said in a ner- 
vous voice ; “ I shall never forget the scene — never ! 
I was quite unprepared to hear what I heard. I 


TALKING BY THE FIRE. 


135 


thought we should have the old story of love and 
marriage told in the old way. On the whole, I think 
our expedition was a failure,” she added, with an 
uneasy little laugh. “ No power on earth will jever 
induce me to go to a gypsy camp again!” 

“Grace, how silly you are!” Mrs. Endon said, 
reprovingly. “ Why do you take the matter seri- 
ously? You had better dismiss it from your thoughts. ” 

“ But, Julia, you did not see and hear as Grace 
did,” remarked Lady Montjoy, turning almost 
sharply on her old friend. “ I think it is quite 
natural that it should have produced a deep impres- 
sion on her mind. ” 

Grace rose from her seat and stood up, with flushed 
cheeks and brightened eyes. 

“ I’m afraid I am as silly as mamma says,” she ex- 
claimed involuntarily. “ And perhaps I am worse 
than silly, for — O Lady Montjoy, I think it would 
be best for every one if the gypsy were right and the 
marriage never came to pass at all!” 

Mrs. Endon was startled; but this little outburst 
of nature did her daughter no harm. To Lady Mont- 
joy it seemed so delightfully sympathetic and refresh- 
ing that she gave Grace an unexpected kiss. Miss 
Endon retreated, in some agitation, to her own 
room; and there her mother came to her an hour 
later. 

Grace was dressed for dinner, and the maid had 
been dismissed. She was standing before the fire 
with her hands loosely clasped, wearing a rather 
peculiar gown of soft crimson and cream color, which 
suited her very well. In her bodice was a small 
bouquet of autumn leaves and Gloire de Dijon roses, 
which matched the hues of her dress. Mrs. Endon 
had never thought her child a beauty; but at this 
moment she became almost beautiful. 

“ My dear, ” she said suddenly, “ I never saw you 
look so well before. You are very seldom excited, 
you know. What a pretty gown that is!” 


1 36 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“Yes, it is rather nice,” Grace answered absently. 
Her breath came quickly, and her pale blue eyes 
looked unusually bright. 

“You are excited,” her mother repeated. “Sit 
down for a minute ; there is time for a word or two. 
The fact is, Clara Montjoy has agitated us both. 
She has quite lost her head about this engagement, 
but it cannot be helped. Alfred is bent on marry- 
ing the girl, and he will marry her in spite of all the 
mothers in the world.” 

“ Has it never struck you that the girl does not 
want to marry him, mamma?” asked Grace, who 
had seated herself obediently, and was resting one 
little crimson shoe on the brass fender. 

“Nonsense, my dear; of course she cares. She 
puts on that slight indifference because it suits her,” 
replied Mrs. Endon, confidently. “ I should say she 
was a very deep girl.” 

“You don’t understand her, mamma; neither do 
I,” Grace said, gazing into the fire. “But I am 
sure that she is utterly and foolishly unworldly. 
She doesn’t care for any of the things that you and I 
have sighed for all our lives. She is a dreamer, and 
she wants a lover who comes from dreamland. If 
she marries Alfred she will be perfectly miserable.” 

“ He will soon get tired of her, I dare say, ” rejoined 
Mrs. Endon cynically. “ Such a violent feeling 
never lasts. I don’t think she will have a long life: 
there is something fragile about her; they won’t get 
on well together, and he will be left a widower.” 

“ Why, mamma, who is forecasting now?” de- 
manded Grace, with a little laugh. “You are worse 
than the gypsy.” 

She rose as she spoke, gave .a few touches to her 
flowers, and moved toward the door. 

“We will go down now, ’’she said. “You need 
not be anxious about me. I am quite composed, I 
assure you. ” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


grace’s opportunity. 

“ Her presence was low music ; when she went 
She left behind a dreary discontent, 

As sad as silence when a song is spent.” 

—Alfred Austin. 

Walter Roche had made many heroic efforts to 
drive away the demon of gloom ; but it had got pos- 
session of the smoking-room, and although he was 
enjoying the most admirably flavored of cigars, 
he was conscious of its dreary influence. With a 
sigh of relief, he escaped at last from the depressing 
atmosphere, and went off to dress for dinner. 

But when he came down into the drawing-room, 
the demon went before him. There was no one 
there ; the light of shaded lamps softly lit up the 
apartment, which was a great deal prettier in these 
days than it had ever been before; and couches and 
deep arm-chairs invited him to repose. Close to the 
blazing fire there was a table laden with greenhouse 
flowers and society journals, but neither flowers nor 
papers attracted him at that moment. He crossed 
the room, pulled aside the blind from one of the 
windows, and stood gazing out into the darkness of 
the night. 

The room was overheated, he thought; the fire 
was too fierce ; the perfumes were too overpowering. 
He pushed back the window-bolt and let in a breath 
of chill air, fresh and damp and sweet. The cry of 
the wild-fowl came from the rushes by the lake ; far 
off a dog barked from the home farm ; unseen wings 
i37 


I38 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

stirred in the wet ivy. His fancy shaped a woman’s 
face out of the darkness, a pale face, delicate and 
spiritual, which seemed to be illuminated by an 
inward light. 

“What do you think of Miss Taunton?” said a 
voice at his elbow. 

It was a woman’s voice, pleasant and refined. He 
turned sharply round, awakened out of a reverie, 
and found Grace Endon by his side. 

As she stood there, smiling and well dressed, her 
hair showing golden tints in the glow of the fire 
and her cheeks still slightly flushed, he thought that 
he had never done her justice before. She was al- 
most, if not quite, a pretty woman, and her presence 
brightened the gloomy old Court when its master 
and mistress were both out of humor. 

Her question was a very natural one ; but an an- 
swer did not come readily to his lips. The face that 
had shaped itself for him in the darkness had been 
Tracy’s face, and he could scarcely say what he 
thought of her, even to himself. 

Miss Endon noticed that he carefully closed the 
window before he replied: 

“She is charming,” he said indifferently as he 
dropped the blind. 

Grace knew instinctively that Miss Taunton had 
taken his fancy. She had wanted to find out whether 
Tracy’s attractions had influenced other men as well 
as Sir Alfred. And here was Walter Roche under 
the spell ! 

To be just to Miss Endon, it must be admitted that 
she was a fairly good-tempered woman, and had 
taken the numerous disappointments of a society life 
very well. The Endons were people of moderate 
means ; but they were not rich, and Grace had se- 
cretly felt that she was not attractive enough to suc- 
ceed without being handsomely gilded. It had been 
a blow to mother and daughter when the news of Sir 
Alfred’s engagement had reached them. If he had 


grace’s opportunity. 


139 


offered himself to Lady Catherine Dare, they would 
have borne it philosophically ; but when they found 
that his betrothed was poor and unknown, they had 
felt that fate had been hard on them. If he had set 
his mind on marrying a poor girl, why could he not 
have chosen an old friend? 

But there was no sign of mortification on Grace’s 
face as she smiled up at Walter Roche. She walked 
quietly across to the fire, and stood, smiling still, 
with the warm light flickering over her figure. 

“Yes, she is charming, ’’ she said, with an air of 
perfect frankness. “ Every one must admit that she 
is a success. One’s difficulty is to say what her es- 
pecial charm is. To-day I thought it must be that 
soft, shadowy look about her eyes. They are large 
eyes ; but she never opens them widely, and always 
gazes at you sweetly, and half- pensively, through the 
black lashes. Mamma and I are quite fascinated. 
But — do you think Sir Alfred seems as happy as one 
would expect him to be?’’ 

Roche paused. Then he said, cautiously, that he 
thought Montjoy had a touch of chronic melancholy 
in his composition. You could read it in his face. 

“ There is something dreamy about Miss Taunton, 
isn’t there?” continued Grace. “That is why she 
does not get on with Lady Montjoy, who is extremely 
matter-of-fact, you know. I didn’t think that Sir 
Alfred was the man to be charmed by a dreamy girl. 
He has so little romance in him.” 

M What is romance ?” Mr. Roche asked vaguely. 

“ Oh, you know what I mean,” she said, laughing. 
“ You have a good deal of it yourself. I think it is 
best described in Shelley’s words — 

“ ‘The desire of the moth for the star ; 

Of the night for the morrow ; 

The devotion to something afar 
From the sphere of our sorrow. ’ ” 

She recited the lines very prettily, and with an 


146 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

expression of which he had not thought her capable. 
While she was speaking Alfred entered the room 
and paused to listen. 

“That was very well done,” he said. “ I did not 
know that you went in for poetry, Miss Endon. ” 

Then he looked at her rather more attentively than 
usual, and was struck by certain changes which he 
observed in her appearance. Her gown was pretty ; 
her bright brown hair was dressed in a becoming 
fashion ; her pose was natural and graceful. 

“ Oh!” she said, lightly* “ there was a little gap in 
the conversation which nothing but a bit of poetry 
would fill.” 

Lady Montjoy and Mrs. Endon came in together. 
The former had recovered her composure, and Grace 
felt sure that she had risen in the estimation of her 
hostess. 

When Lady Montjoy spoke to Miss Endon her voice 
softened a little ; her glance was kind. The atmos- 
phere was genial; even Alfred said to himself that 
it was pleasant to have the Endons in the house; 
they got on with his mother so well. And Grace had 
a way of making herself agreeable, keeping her own 
temper when other people had lost theirs. Alto- 
gether, he felt that she was decidedly a useful person. 

When he came into the drawing-room after dinner, 
flushed, and not perfectly steady in his gait, there 
was Grace, ready to talk to him gayly. Lady Montjoy 
gave him an uneasy look : the habit of taking more 
wine than was good for him was growing fast. His 
mother had known very little about men who drank 
too much ; all her life had been spent with an invalid, 
who lived according to strict rules, and it was not 
until they were settled at Woodcourt that she began 
to study the ways of her son. 

Mrs. Endon studied him, too, and remembered a 
certain tale which had come to her ears in days long 
past. She had been told that Sir Alfred’s grand- 
father had done wild things when the brandy fiend 


grace's opportunity. 141 

had got possession of his brain — things that had been 
carefully hushed up, so that society might not be 
gratified by having something very shocking to talk 
about. 

And Alfred was like his grandfather, old Sir Eve- 
rard, whose portrait hung over the carved chimney- 
piece in the great dining-room. He had the same 
melancholy hazel eyes, the same handsome mouth, 
drooping at the corners ; it was one of those faces 
which seem to belong to old picture-galleries and 
ancient halls. Unromantic as Mrs. Endon was, she 
could still understand that it was a face which would 
charm women, and bring sorrow into their lives. In 
all times, women have been found to sympathize with 
the men who have least deserved their tenderness. 
They have been known to slight the true hero who 
carefully concealed all traces of his noble conflict, 
and devote themselves, body and soul, to the selfish 
reveller, weary and worn with his own excess. On 
the whole, Mrs. Endon felt that it was, perhaps, a 
kind fate which had denied Alfred Mont joy to her 
daughter. 

But Grace did not seem to be in the least conscious 
of Sir Alfred’s condition. She played to him with 
charming cheerfulness, sang a song which he had 
huskily asked for, and then carried on a conversation 
in which his part was incoherently sustained. Lady 
Montjoy beheld her efforts to amuse him with deep 
satisfaction. 

“Alfred has been completely upset to-day,” she 
said confidentially to her old friend. “ He is not 
quite himself to-night, and it is sweet in Grace to 
try to cheer him. Tracy does not know how to man- 
age him in the least. I am so glad that she went 
home early.” 

Walter Roche, standing near his hostess, heard 
Tracy’s name mentioned, and had his ears quick- 
ened by the sound. 

He, too, was glad that she had gone home early. 


142 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

What to him were all her subtle charms and graces, 
her gentle influence, her deep eyes ! It was true that 
she was the last woman in the world on whom he 
would have fixed as likely to be Montjoy’s choice. 
But Mont joy had chosen her. 

He looked across the room to Sir Alfred, still 
deeply flushed and smiling vacantly ; and then his 
gaze rested on Grace, who had so gayly undertaken 
the laborious task of entertaining a tipsy man. At 
that moment he hated them both right sinfully. 
Had they anything in common with that pale, spirit- 
ual face which had risen up before him in the dark- 
ness? He longed to be once more in the quiet of 
his own room, that he might call up that vision 
again. 

But it is rather a perilous thing when a bachelor 
of thirty takes to calling up visions of a face which 
can never be more than a vision to him. Roche 
was conscious that he was not in an enviable mood 
to-night. 

It had been one of those strange days which seem 
to be immensely long and to be crowded with new 
experiences. We have all known such days, and 
can trace the deep furrows that they have ploughed 
upon our lives. Roche was not quite sure, on look- 
ing back, of the very hour at which that day had be- 
gun. He could recall nothing earlier than the ad- 
vent of a slender little figure, dressed in soft gray. 

There are people who seem to photograph 
themselves upon our memories, and not themselves 
only, but all those surroundings which made a 
background for them when we saw them first. 
Tracy’s background was a mass of softly colored 
autumn foliage and a piece of misty blue sky 
framed in the old doorway of the hall. This was 
how he first saw her — framed over and above by the 
square of the dark doorway, beyond which were 
rich olive-green leaves and yellow asters, bathed in 
the faint light of a November sun. She came in, 


grace’s opportunity. 


143 


her head erect, moving with that peculiar grace 
and dignity which make a few women queens in the 
world. And Roche stood and looked his fill. Her 
movement was so quiet, and there was something so 
tender and pure in her pale face, that his heart was 
* softened and calmed. 

Here and there we come across certain men and 
women who possess the gift of silent emotion. The 
eyes that meet yours seem to convey a deep sym- 
pathy with your hidden life; the voice that speaks 
to you, in every-day words, penetrates into the very 
depths of your heart. Walter Roche felt the influence 
of this gift when he first met Tracy Taunton, and 
it was a spell which lingered with him long after the 
power of other enchantments had passed away. 

Mrs. Endon thought him unusually dull and stupid, 
and was out of temper with her daughter. Grace was 
really carrying her flirtation too far, she felt. Sir 
Alfred would be sure to wake up with a headache 
to-morrow, and then he would fly to Tracy for con- 
solation. She sat in the shaded lamplight, industri- 
ously setting woollen stitches in a large square of 
canvas, and worrying herself about Grace’s follies 
as only mothers can. 

Lady Montjoy, toying with an ivory crochet-needle, 
was going over the gypsy’s predictions in her mind, 
and trying to recall every instance that she had ever 
heard of prophecy fulfilled. Alfred would have 
said that she was fast weakening her brain over this 
fortune-telling ; but she could not give it up. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


MRS. ENDON’S ANXIETIES. 

“But meet him now, and be it in the morn, 

When every one will give the time of day, 

He knits his brow, and shows an angry eye.” 

— King Henry VI. 

Two days went by without bringing any change 
for the better to Alfred’s temper. The weather was 
soft and fair. Grace Endon was invariably in a 
sunny humor, but her host refused to hear the 
voice of the charmer. Perhaps she did not always 
charm wisely. Anyway, a close observer might 
have thought that she returned with irritating per- 
tinacity to the fortune- telling subject. 

“ If I had been in Miss Taunton’s circumstances,” 
she said once, with a musing air, “that gypsy’s 
words would have made me utterly miserable. ” 

“Why?” asked Montjoy, turning his head quickly 
and looking down into her face. 

They were standing out upon the terrace after 
breakfast. The morning air was calm and sweet, 
and every bush and spray was heavily weighted with 
dew-drops. Summer was gone, and in her stead had 
come a dreamy, languid season which might, at any 
hour, give place to sharp frosts and cutting blasts. 
The very uncertainty of this balmy quietness made 
it sweet. Even Grace, who was no very ardent lover 
of nature, felt its charm. 

She slowly broke off a Gloire de Dijon rose which 
was blooming on a tree close to the library window. 
Its dark-green leaves were glossy and wet, and she 
144 


MRS. endon’s anxieties. 


145 


gently shook off the moisture before she fastened it 
into her bodice. Her companion watched her im- 
patiently, but she did not speak until she had settled 
the flower to her liking. “Why?” she repeated 
softly. “ Can you ask? If she is looking forward to 
a certain happy event, must not the gypsy have 
frightened her? We have all been talking about the 
wedding that is coming off. Yet the woman said 
that she could see no marriage at all.” 

“ Tracy is too sensible to be moved by such non- 
sense,” Alfred answered, in an uneasy tone. 

“ Is she? Then she must be one of the coldest 
girls in the world. Women are never quite sensible 
if they are really in love. I am sure I could not 
be,” said Grace, with one of those little bursts of 
frankness which had been known to produce a good 
effect. 

Now, Montjoy had always regarded her as one of 
the most sensible women of his acquaintance. She 
was not a gusher ; she had never been seen to weep ; 
her mirth had never been excessive. If ever there 
was a girl who “kept the even tenor of her way,” 
it was Miss Endon ; and these words of hers, coming 
from such prudent lips, impressed him deeply. 

“ And you thought that she would have been dis- 
turbed by that old wretch’s tale?” he said, half an- 
grily. 

“Yes,” Grace replied simply. “When a girl is in 
love she always gives heed to trifles. A breath can 
ruffle her peace. Men are different, I daresay; but 
we are all alike, I believe, when we fall under that 
spell.” 

She looked up, saw his darkening face, and felt that 
she had said enough. They both heard the old 
clock in the hall strike eleven as they stood there 
looking at each other. Without another word she 
turned, leaving him standing on the terrace in the 
dim sunshine, and went her way into the house. 

About half an hour later she stood at the window 


10 


146 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


of her own room, looking out upon the grounds. 
Lawns and gardens were bathed in the soft light ; 
the silver gleam of the lake was seen through a 
break in the trees. Grace’s glance took in all the 
details of the scene, and, with an involuntary sigh, 
she thought how delightful life would be here if she 
were mistress of the place. This was a thought 
which had darted into her mind very often of late, 
and she did not hesitate to give it free entrance. 

The handle of the door was turned quietly and 
Mrs. Endon came in. Grace looked round, not un- 
prepared to see her mother and quite ready for a 
lecture. 

“My dear, I want to speak to you,” began Mrs. 
Endon, shutting the door carefully. “ I saw you 
on the terrace after breakfast, and I felt I must say 
a word or two. ” 

“ Yes, mamma. Do you mind coming here by the 
window? It is so pleasant this morning, ” said Grace, 
in a tranquil voice. 

Mrs. Endon crossed the room and sat down in an 
arm-chair, close to her daughter’s side. Grace did 
not change her position. She stood still, gazing in- 
tently out upon the grounds. 

“I think you are flirting too much with Alfred,” 
said Mrs. Endon, plunging into the subject without 
any circumlocution. “ Other people will make re- 
marks if you go on, and that will be disagreeable for 
us all. We don’t like that Taunton girl, of course; 
but our friendship with the Montjoys is of long stand- 
ing, and we mean to keep it up after Alfred has mar- 
ried her.” 

“ Certainly, if he does marry her, ” Grace remarked. 

“ There is hardly an ‘ if ’ in the case. ” Mrs. En- 
don was a little irritated. “ Don’t be misled by any- 
thing that Clara Montjoy may say. She is too furi- 
ous to see things as they really are. He will never 
give the girl up.” 

Grace was silent. She drummed softly on the 


MRS. ENDON S ANXIETIES. 


147 


glass with the tips of her white fingers, and looked 
fixedly at the golden gravel of the carriage-sweep. 
The peacocks were strutting about in the sunshine, 
catching the light upon their gorgeous plumage; 
and presently a couple of white doves came flutter- 
ing softly down like a pair of great snow-flakes. 
Somewhere, beyond the pkrk, a church-bell droned 
out its knell through the sunlit mists ; but no other 
sound broke the intense stillness of the day. 

“ Perhaps Tracy Taunton isn’t greatly to be envied 
after all,” Mrs. Endon continued. “Any one could 
see how it was with Alfred last night. He has in- 
herited the vice of his grandfather — that wicked old 
Sir Everard. Thank heaven that he is no son of 
mine!” 

“You mean that he was drunk?” Grace said ab- 
ruptly. 

“Of course I do. You know it, Grace.” 

The widow moved her hands restlessly in her 
lap and gave her daughter an anxious look. For the 
first time in her life she was beginning to feel that 
she did not quite understand her own child. What 
game was this that Grace was playing? It was sure 
to be a losing game, she thought. 

“You know it,” she repeated, “ and Walter Roche 
knew it, too. I saw him watching you both. He is 
a sly man, always on the watch for something.” 

“Let him watch,” said Grace doggedly. “As to 
the drunkenness, mamma, that is no uncommon 
thing. Nine men out of ten of our acquaintance 
drink too much. Why should you be hard on Alfred 
for such an every-day weakness?” 

“ Our circle is not composed entirely of inebri- 
ates,” responded Mrs. Endon, with cold dignity. “ I 
am surprised to hear you make such a rash state- 
ment.” 

“We number a great many inebriates among our 
bosom friends,” said Grace, with quiet malice. 
“ Every one does. Ladies get up temperance meet- 


148 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

ings in their drawing-rooms and ask bishops to 
preside over them. The bishops go home and 
groan over their sons’ wine bills ; and the ladies have 
each a beloved drunkard for whom they can always 
make excuse. In spite of social reform, the time-hon- 
ored race of wine-bibbers goes on as merrily as ever. ” 

Mrs. Endon was quite startled. Her daughter 
spoke with an intensity of bitterness that was new. 

“ Men are not all alike when they are drunk, 
Grace,” she remarked, after a pause. “Some are 
simply ridiculous ; some are atrociously wicked. Sir 
Everard Montjoy belonged to the latter class. One 
day he nearly killed a groom in his madness. The 
matter was hushed up, and the man, who was crip- 
pled for life, received a handsome pension. Alfred 
has inherited his grandfather’s temper as well as his 
face. I hope ” 

She stopped short. Grace’s fingers had ceased to 
drum upon the pane, and convulsively clasped the 
window-frame. Her face became suddenly white and 
drawn ; her eyes were dilated. 

“What is it that you see?” asked her mother, 
springing up from her seat. 

A glance out of doors was answer enough. Sir 
Alfred was coming down the terrace steps, and out 
into the carriage-sweep, staggering as he walked. 
No one tried to stop him; no one seemed to observe 
him. At his approach the white doves fluttered up 
into the air again, and the peacocks made haste to 
escape fom his path. He lifted up his flushed face 
in the calm sunlight and cursed the birds. 

Grace drew her breath quickly and unclosed the 
casement with a quiet hand. Then she leaned out 
into the soft air and watched him. 

“ I wonder where he will go?” she murmured to 
herself. “ If Tracy were to see him now she would 
hate him.” 

“ He is a dreadful young man, ” said Mrs. Endon. “ O 
Grace, how glad I am that he isn’t engaged to you!” 


CHAPTER XX. 


IN THE WOODS. 

“She stood up in bitter case, with a pale yet steady face, 

( Toll slowly ,) 

Like a statue thunderstruck, which, though quivering, 
seems to look 

Right against the thunder-place.” 

— Mrs. Browning. 

Grandma had not been quite satisfied with Tracy’s 
demeanor of late. She had questioned her about 
the visit to Woodcourt without getting much infor- 
mation; Tracy was preoccupied, she thought, and 
did not make an effort to be entertaining. Was 
there anything on her mind? The old lady was 
determined to know. 

“ How did you like the Endons?” she asked. 
“ Were they very civil? ” 

“ I liked them pretty well,” Tracy replied. “And 
they were very civil. ” 

Grandma surveyed her thoughtfully for a moment, 
and then came out with a new question. 

“ Is Miss Endon pretty?” she demanded. 

“No; but she is not plain,” said Tracy honestly. 
“ Her figure is good and she dresses with taste. On 
the whole, I think she would be called an attractive 
woman. ” 

Mrs. Taunton mused again, and studied her grand- 
child as she sat at breakfast. But Tracy being well 
used to grandma’s searching gaze was perfectly 
composed. She sipped her coffee, and then read- 
justed a cirmson leaf in a cluster which adorned the 
table. The leaves were in a crystal vase which was 
always filled with flowers or foliage. 

149 


150 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

“And what of the gypsies?” Mrs. Taunton asked, 
suddenly. “ I have mentioned them several times, 
but you seem to have nothing to tell about them.” 

“No, I have nothing to tell about them.” Tracy 
uttered her sentence in an expressionless tone, like a 
dull child accomplishing an answer in a lesson. 

Grandma gave her another long look, and came to 
the conclusion that her face was graver and paler 
than usual. Could it be possible that Sir Alfred was 
wavering, just a little, in his allegiance? The de- 
sire of the match had taken such a deep root in the 
old lady’s heart, and had grown and spread and 
flourished to such an extent, that it overshadowed 
every other feeling. In her mind, everything was 
colored by the dominant idea. She was afraid where 
no fear was. She was ever looking out for the day 
when her great hope might be torn up and laid low. 

What if that Grace Endon had been a former flame? 
Grandma had a great dread of old loves. She fan- 
cied that there might be a dangerous heat remaining 
in the ashes of a by-gone passion. It was true that 
she had never heard a rumor of any past love-mak- 
ing between Sir Alfred and Miss Endon; but her 
imagination had got hold of the notion and embel- 
lished it in an alarming fashion. Besides, had not 
Tracy readily admitted that Grace was an attractive 
woman? 

But if Tracy had cause for jealousy, it certainly 
did not appear in her manner. Grandma thought 
that she had accepted her good fortune with too 
much indifference, and hers was the calm of se- 
curity. As a matter of fact she was far too calm. 
It might be well to rouse a spirit of alertness. 

“ Does Alfred admire Miss Endon?” she inquired 
in a tone of feigned indifference. 

“ Really, grandma, I don’t know,” Tracy said in a 
bored voice. “ He seemed to get on with her very 
well. Lady Montjoy is fond of the Endons.” 

“ Tracy, you do not try hard enough to make Lady 


IN THE WOODS. 


151 

Montioy fond of you,” remarked grandma seriously. 
“A girl ought to win the heart of her husband’s 
mother; it is most important.” 

“ But some hearts are not to be won. ” 

“ The rector has always said that you could win 
any heart if you chose,” said grandma. “But, 
Tracy, you are indifferent. One must make allow- 
ances for Lady Montjoy; her son’s engagement was 
a great surprise, and one could hardly expect her to 
open her arms to you. She is gracious, however, 
and you ought to be grateful.” 

The girl was silent; but her face did not express 
gratitude. Her dark eyebrows were knitted with her 
quick impatience of old days. 

“ I dare say Miss Endon is a little envious, ” grand- 
ma continued, smiling to herself with half-concealed 
gratification. “It is quite natural, poor thing! 
What would she not give to be in your place? It 
must have been difficult for her to meet you pleas- 
antly; I feel for her — I really do. All the county 
families are full of curiosity about you. The other 

day, when we met the Heathcotes in Jones’ shop 

why, Tracy, where are you going?” 

“ Out of doors, grandma. ” She had risen suddenly 
from her seat and was pushing the black rings of 
her hair away from her forehead. “ It is such a 
warm morning I can’t stay here any longer.” 

“ How restless you are, my dear! You will not be 
thoroughly settled now till you are married.” 

Tracy went flying upstairs, sweeping past Barbara 
on her way. The narrow window on the landing 
was open, affording her a glimpse of faint blue sky, 
set in an ivy frame. Out of the house there was 
freedom and leisure for thought, and there were quiet 
places where one could commune with one’s own 
heart and be still. Indoors there was grandma with 
her eternal talk of bridal arrangements and her end- 
less congratulations on the winning of the great 
prize. 


152 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


She put on her walking-garb with all speed, seiz- 
ing on the first thing that came to her hand. The 
little gray cap was set hastily on her curly head, 
and then she flew to the wardrobe and took out a 
certain cloak which Mrs. Taunton had pronounced 
too matronly for her years. It was a gray cloak, 
of a darker shade than the cap, lined with quilted 
satin of the same tint. When thus attired, with the 
cloak falling in straight folds to the hem of her 
gown, there was a Puritan air about Tracy which 
gave her altogether a new aspect ; and yet the prim 
garment hung on her lithe figure with perfect grace. 
Only, instead of the dainty little woman of the world 
who generally emerged from the old house door, 
there went forth a grave maiden, austere and pale, 
looking as those look who mind not earthly things. 

She walked fast, taking those well-known short 
cuts which led out of the town. There had been a 
vague desire in her mind when she had fled from the 
house, and it strengthened and took a definite shape 
as she went on. She would go to the woods and 
find out the gypsy camp ; it might be possible that 
Esther Lee had come back to sojourn there for a 
time. She did not ask herself what it was that she 
wanted to hear from the woman ; she was only con- 
scious of a longing to see her again — to see her 
when no other eyes were looking on and no other 
ears were listening to her voice. 

There was a by-path, crossing a field behind a 
solitary farm-house, which led directly into a little- 
frequented part of the woods. It was seldom that 
Tracy followed this path ; it was not a public way, 
and the farmer whose land it traversed was severe 
on trespassers of high or low degree. But to-day the 
girl was in no mood to care about Farmer Dale and 
his rights and wrongs, and she sped across the lonely 
field like an arrow, climbed lightly over the fence, 
and plunged at once into a narrow aisle, walled in 
by thick-growing trees. 


IN THE WOODS: 


* 53 ' 

The currents of air did not penetrate these dense 
shades, and it was almost as warm as summer here. 
The atmosphere was so. still and so fragrant with 
woody scents that Tracy loved to steep herself in it, 
and felt the soothing- influence of silence stealing 
over her spirit. Oak and beech were old familiar 
friends, stripped of their glories now, but ready to 
live their winter life with a stout heart. Green 
things were always growing in the underwood; 
mosses cushioned many a rugged bole and delicate 
gray lichen clung to many a leafless bough ; the trees 
were now left desolate. As to the ivy, it flourished 
everywhere, flinging verdant sprays across the car- 
pet of dead leaves that covered the sylvan floor. 

So thickly did the branches spread on each hand 
that, though, the intersecting paths often ran almost 
side by side, persons following them had no sus- 
picion of each other’s presence unless their voices 
were heard. Tracy had gone on and on, enjoying* 
the stillness for some time, before she heard a voice. 
And then the sound of angry mutterings struck sud- 
denly upon her ears, and she quickened her foot- 
steps unawares. 

There was a whimpering and a wailing, a savage 
oath — a child’s shrill cry of pain. If Tracy’s heart 
was throbbing fast at this moment it was not with; 
fear: she was far too wrathful to feel afraid. No' 
true woman has ever yet heard the wail of childish i 
agony without developing a passionate courage; and; 
this girl, sensitive, heroic, and full of strong mater- 
nal instinct, went springing forward to the rescue. 

The path widened a little, opening out abruptly 
into a small clearing which was the beginning of a' 
thinner growth of timber. In this space there were 
two persons, one a young man, tall and strong ; the 
other a little brown-faced lad of six or seven. The 
man held the boy with the left hand and beat him 
furiously with a stick which he grasped in his 
right. There was blood flowing from the child’s^ 


154 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


head, and his first shrill cries were dying away into 
feeble moans when Tracy came up to them. 

With a cry wilder than the child’s had been the 
girl sprang right at her lover and struck him sharply 
ia the face with the light umbrella which she carried. 
The attack was so sudden and the sight of Tracy so 
strange and unexpected that Alfred Mont joy dropped 
his stick and staggered backward in helpless be- 
wilderment. As if fascinated, he could see nothing 
else in heaven or on earth but this slender gray shape 
with the white face and shining eyes. 

“You are a coward, a cruel, dastardly coward!” 
The voice was still intensely musical, although it 
trembled with righteous wrath. “Ah, I see!” And 
the tones had a ring of bitter contempt in them. 
“You have been drinking.” 

“Yes, I have been drinking,” said Montjoy stu- 
pidly. He was dazed, and his face tingled with the 
pain of the stroke ; but the shock had almot sobered 
him. 

“I’m sorry I hit the little beggar,” he went on. 
“ But they always howl for nothing, those little beg- 
gars do. He isn’t hurt, you know.” 

Tracy had drawn the boy gently toward her and 
was wiping away the blood from his forehead. As- 
tonishment had checked his cries, and he clung to her 
dress, soothed and comforted, but still quivering 
from head to foot. When Alfred drew a step 
nearer he clung closer yet, and tried to hide himself 
in the folds of the gray cloak. 

“Go away,” said Tracy, turning to the young 
man with the air of a queen. “ Go away at once. 
Do you hear?” 

“Yes, I hear,” he answered sullenly. “But I 
don’t choose to go and leave you here in a rage. 
I’ve said I’m sorry, and you ought to be pleasant, 
Tracy, and forget all about this trumpery affair. 
I’ll give the brat a shilling and send him back to 


IN THE WOODS. 1 55 

the cursed gypsies he belongs to. He’ll be none the 
worse for a good licking.” 

“I will take him to his people,” Tracy said. “I 
think he can hardly walk alone after your cruel 
usage. Go your way and I will go mine. ” 

“You ought not to be mixed up with a set of 
thieves,” he began, endeavoring to put on airs of 
authority. “I’m accountable to Mrs. Taunton for 
your safety. No one has a greater right to take 
care of you than I have. You will have to obey me 
one day, and you may as well begin at once.” 

She drew herself up and looked him full in the 
face — a look of such lofty contempt that it haunted 
him for many a year afterward. 

“ I shall never obey you,” she answered. Her 
voice was clear. and almost solemn in its calmness. 
“ You are not fit to take care of yourself, and I will 
not have you walking by my side. Go home and 
get sober and see yourself in a true light.” 

She took the boy’s hand, and they walked away 
together along a straight path which led out of the 
clearing. 

He did not attempt to follow her. Confused as his 
brain still was, he had sense enough to know that 
she was too strong for him. He had done no harm ; 
she was making a ridiculous fuss about nothing ; it 
was all part and parcel of her romantic tempera- 
ment. Later on, when this storm had blown over, 
her grandmother would come to his help and bring 
her to reason. It was the first time that she had 
ever seen him drunk, but what of that? She would 
have to get used to his ways and make the best of 
them. 


CHAPTER XXL 


THE BOND THAT CHAFED* 

“Love’s throne was not with these ; but far above 
All passionate wind of welcome and farewell 
He sat in breathless bowers they dream not of. ” 

— D. G. Rossetti. 

The gypsies, grouped in picturesque attitudes 
about their fire, looked as if they had been sitting 
and standing there ever since Tracy’s last visit to the 
encampment. The men were still lounging on the 
ground, smoking their short pipes; the women 
nursed the babies; the little ones played; and the 
handsome girl was still feeding the cheery flames. 
Miss Taunton, with an arm thrown round the boy’s 
shoulders, came suddenly into the midst of the 
group. 

“The child is hurt,” she said simply. “A man 
has been beating him, and I have brought him 
back to you. ” There was a general movement. The 
little fellow freed himself from Tracy’s light clasp 
and went forward, saying some words in a strange 
tongue. One of the women uttered a passionate ex- 
clamation and began to examine his wound. And 
then a tall figure emerged from a tent and stood 
upright among them all. Tracy recognized the 
penetrating dark eyes when she encountered their 
gaze, and was conscious of a sudden thrill, half of 
hope, half of fear. It was Esther Lee. 

Both the men had risen, looking furtively and 
darkly at Miss Taunton; but not speaking. The 
tall woman said a few words in Romany, and then 
addressed Tracy in a calm voice. 

* 5 * 


THE BOND 'BfcAT CHAFED. 157 

“ You are kind to the poor gypsies, lady — we thank 
you, all of us. ” 

“ I am very sorry for the poor child. I wish 
I could have kept him from harm,” said Tracy, hold- 
ing out some silver rather timidly. The boy’s 
mother accepted the gift with a slight show of grati- 
tude. 

“We thank you,” Esther Lee repeated gravely. 
“Go home now, lady; there’s no more to be said. 
The hand that shed the child’s blood might have shed 
your own. But that will not be.” 

“ If you only would speak quite plainly ” 

Tracy began the sentence impulsively, scarcely 
knowing what she said, much wrought upon by all 
that she had just passed through. But Esther Lee 
lifted her hand with a warning gesture. 

“ I have spoken,” said the calm voice. “ Go home, 
lady. My words were true, and you will know the 
truth. ” 

The command was obeyed in silence. Tracy went 
home swiftly through the woods and across Farmer 
Dale’s land without let or hindrance. She had a 
dim recollection afterward of speeding through the 
High Street like some one in a dream ; but no one 
seemed to notice anything unusual in her aspect, and 
the old town at this time of day was often very still. 

Barbara started, and looked at her wonderingly 
when the hall door was opened. There were voices 
in the breakfast-room; she could hear the rector’s 
familiar tones, and then Mrs. Taunton called out 
cheerfully, “Is that you, Tracy?” 

Poor grandma! What a change would come over 
her when she knew all that had happened that morn, 
ing! As that well-known call met her ears, Tracy 
suddenly realized the disappointment which would 
embitter the old lady’s peaceful life. But at all 
costs the girl felt that she must be free. Never 
again would she suffer herself to submit to the yok$ 
of bondage. 


158 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

“ Is that you, Tracy?” repeated grandma. 

“Yes,” Tracy answered mechanically. 

“Come in here at once. Mr. Lazelle wants to 
speak to you.” 

She came in slowly and quietly and the rector 
rose to meet her with his kind smile. 

“ We have made our plans for the bazaar,” he be- 
gan at once. “And we have settled that you are 

to preside over a stall with why, surely you are 

not well, my child!” 

“ I have had a shock, that is all. ” 

She uttered the words in a passionless voice, and 
sank down into the chair which he placed for her. 
Mrs. Taunton got up hastily, calling to Barbara to 
bring wine. But Tracy stopped her with a sudden 
gesture. “Not wine, grandma; I will not touch it. 
Tell Barbara not to stand there staring. I shall be 
quite strong again presently. ” 

The old lady dismissed Barbara with a glance. 
Her hands were trembling as she unfastened her 
grandchild’s cloak. It fidgeted Tracy to feel those 
unsteady fingers at her collar, but she controlled 
the impulse to push them away; grandma would 
have enough to suffer without enduring a rebuff, 
she thought. The rector stood by and looked on 
gravely. 

“Has anything happend to Alfred?” Mrs. Taun- 
ton asked at last, unable any longer to bear the sus- 
pense. 

“ Not. exactly ; there has been no accident,” said 
Tracy, with hesitation. 

Grandma trembled more than ever, convinced that 
her worst fears were about to be realized. Mr. 
Lazelle gently suggested that she should sit down. 

“Tell her everything as soon as possible,” he 
whisperd to Tracy. 

“I have had' a shock, ” Tracy repeated. “In the 
woods this morning I came upon Alfred beating a 
gypsy boy. The child’s head was bleeding; you 


THE BOND 7HAT CHAFED. 


159 


may see his blood upon my dress,” she added, 
pointing to a spot on her skirt. 

The rector was a strong man, yet he shuddered 
visibly. Mrs. Taunton was pale, but she made an 
attempt to put the truth from her. 

“ Surely you are exaggerating,” she said. “What 
had the boy done?” 

“ Nothing, grandma. Alfred had been drinking, 
and the drink had made him furious. ” 

Mrs. Taunton drew a deep breath. Then she 
demanded quickly: 

“ What came next? What did you do?” 

“I was in a passion,” Tracy said. “When I saw 
the child writhing in his grasp I nearly went mad. 

I struck Alfred in the face with my sunshade, and 
he was so startled that he let the boy go. ” 

“Struck him? Oh, how dreadful!” moaned the 
old lady, throwing up her hands. “ I hope you did 
not hurt him !” 

“ I hope she did,” the rector murmured. 

“I hurt him a little, a very little,” Tracy replied; 
“ and then I ordered him out of my sight and took 
the boy back to his own people. There is nothing 
more to tell, only that all is over between Alfred 
and me.” 

“Did he say that all was over?” Mrs. Taunton 
almost shrieked. 

“ No, grandma; I say it. I will not marry a man 
who brutalizes himself as Alfred has done.” 

Mrs. Taunton looked at her with a mixture of an- 
ger and pity. 

“ Tracy, your strong imagination colors every- 
thing,” she said. “You do not see things as they 
really are. Of course it is right to love children, 
but you are absurdly sentimental where they are 
concerned. I am sure that the little gypsy was more 
frightened than hurt. You cannot expect a young 
man like Alfred to be as tender to beggar children 
as you are.” 


i6o 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


There was a hopeless look in Tracy’s eyes at that 
moment. The rector saw the expression and felt 
that she was weary with the thought of a coming 
( conflict. It would be a hard battle to fight, as he 
knew right well, but the girl would win the victory; 
and the prize of victory was freedom. 

Mr. Lazelle had never liked Alfred Mont joy from 
the first; certain vague rumors had been whispered 
which the rector did not wish to believe, yet found it 
impossible altogether to disregard. He had looked 
on, longing to hold Tracy back from the pitfall that 
was hidden under roses; but grandma’s influence 
had prevailed. Now the time had come for him to 
stand firmly by the girl’s side and help her to fight 
the good fight. He glanced at grandma with a look 
of sharp displeasure such as was seldom seen on 
his benign face. Being a wise man, however, and 
.a man of the world, he said nothing just then. 

“ I dare say your nerves are shaken, my dear,” the 
.old lady continued. “Of course when you struck 
Alfred you did not know what you were doing in the 
least.” 

“Yes, grandma; I did know,” Tracy said quietly. 
l “ I felt that if I did not strike him he would kill the 
• child. If it all happened again I should do just the 
same.” 

“But it will not happen again!” cried grandma, 
in a state of exasperation. “ Such an event can only 
-occur once in a lifetime.” 

“I am afraid it may occur many times,” Tracy 
answered sadly. “One cannot depend on a man 
who gets drunk.” 

“ But he isn’t always getting drunk. O Tracy, 
how can you be so hard and unforgiving?” 

“ I can never forget the rage in his face,” the girl 
said, speaking half to herself. “ It was fiendish. 
It seemed as if there had always been a devil pent 
;up within him, and the drink had set it free.” 

“.How dare you use. such .awful language?” grandma 


THE BOND THAT CHAFED. l6l 

asked angrily. “ I wonder that Mr. Lazelle does not 
reprove you.” 

Tracy remained silent. Her eyes were gazing 
out into the garden, as if she had called up a vision 
of some horrid thing. When Mrs. Taunton went on 
speaking wrathfully, she shivered and turned to the 
rector with a look of dumb distress. 

He rose and took one of her cold hands in his. 

“This dear child is suffering intensely,” he said 
earnestly. “ She must go to her room and lie down 
in peace.” 

She still looked at him in silence, while the tears 
gathered and welled slowly over her white cheeks. 

“Yes, yes, she had better lie down,” assented 
grandma, alarmed by her paleness. “ You will come 
in again this afternoon, Mr. Lazelle?” 

He inclined his head gravely, and something in 
his manner made the old lady half-afraid of him. 
Then he opened the door, and Tracy went languidly 
out of the room. 

She shut herself into her studio with a sense of 
relief, although every limb was aching wearily. She 
had been often tired before, but now there was a 
deadly depression added to bodily fatigue, and she 
sank down upon a couch, half-closing her eyes, and 
wondering vaguely if this was the beginning of an 
illness. Mrs. Taunton’s angry words pressed heavily 
upon her heart. She was burdened with the fear of 
the coming struggle, knowing, only too well, how 
reluctantly Alfred would relinquish his prize, and 
how desperately grandma would fight on his side. 

But she must be free. And then a vision of her life 
as it would be if she married Alfred Montjoy seemed 
to pass swiftly before her eyes. She realized in this 
moment all the misery of bodily union and spiritual 
disunion— realized it so strongly that she sprang up 
suddenly with an irrepressible cry of anguish. 

Oh, to go back again to her twenty-first birthday, 
and start afresh on the perilous path of womanhood! 

XI 


162 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


Oh, to be once more the unfettered girl who had 
gone gayly to the silent lake to steal water-lilies! 
She began to pace up and down the room, clasping 
her hands tightly over her breast; and thinking, 
thinking, thinking till her temples throbbed, sand 
the desire for rest and freedom burned like a fire in 
her heart. 

There are times in all our lives when we feel that 
help must come from within us, and not from any- 
thing outside ourselves. At this crisis of her life, 
Tracy was feeling a feverish craving for aid, and an 
intense consciousness of terror ; terror, not of Alfred, 
but of those clinging fibres of tenderness which had 
grown with her growth, and wound themselves round 
her grandmother. How could she tear herself away, 
and close her ears to the old lady’s pleadings? Yet 
the wrench must come, and soon. Amid all the wild 
tumult of emotions she could hear an inner voice 
clearly saying to her, “Soon, soon.” 

Tired at last of restless movement, she sat down 
wearily in her old seat near the window, and lifted 
her eyes to the picture of her knight. She saw again 
those sunlit heights of dreamland on which she had 
met him long ago. The old splendor was still lin- 
gering on the summits of those everlasting hills ; the 
old peace still hovered like a dove over that trysting- 
place. As she looked long and earnestly at the tran- 
quil face of her hero, she felt a warm flood of tears 
rising to her eyes, and something of his calmness 
seemed to steal into her heart. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


BREAKING FREE. 

“They were parted then at last? 

Was it duty, or force, or fate? 

Or only a wordy blast 
Blew to the meeting-gate?” 

— George Macdonald. 

It was late in the afternoon when Tracy came 
slowly downstairs and entered the drawing-room. 
She was not yet mistress of herself, and she still 
trembled at the very thought of the coming struggle. 
She knew that she was unspeakably afraid of the lit- 
tle old lady that sat erect in her chair, and sipped 
her tea. That spirit of self-sacrifice, which always 
dwelt deep in her heart, would yet tempt her to ruin 
her own happiness that grandma might rejoice. It 
seemed to her at this moment that she must strike 
Mrs. Taunton’s death-blow wth her own hand. 

Coming out of darkness into the lighted room, 
warm, and perfumed with flowers, a sudden dizziness 
overpowered her. She faltered and stopped, lean- 
ing against the door for an instant. 

“ You are still weak, ” said Mr. Lazelle. He would 
have supported her, but she recovered herself, and 
with one of those impulses which sometimes came to 
her, she said : 

“ Yes, but I must be strong at any cost.” 

“ You must listen to the appeal of your own heart. 
Its voice is the only voice that has a right to be 
heard,” replied the rector quietly. 

Mrs. Taunton gave him a swift glance, half-angry, 
163 


164 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


half-entreating. But he looked back at her calmly 
and almost sternly as he put Tracy into a chair. 

“ Have you been lying down, my dear? ” asked the 
old lady, giving her some tea. “ There is nothing 
as good as rest when one has had a shock. Don’t 
imagine that you are going to be ill. Young people 
so often think that an illness is sure to follow great 
agitation.” 

“I don’t think I am going to be ill,” Tracy an- 
swered meekly. 

“You will be as well as ever to-morrow,” con- 
tinued grandma ; but the words did not sound as if 
she meant them. She was resolutely bent on mak- 
ing light of everything just then. In by-gone days 
she had succeeded — or had thought that she had suc- 
ceeded — in talking Tracy out of many an absurd no- 
tion. But something warned her that the task which 
lay before her would be a difficult one, and that warn- 
ing came from the recesses of her own conscience. 

She had asked Mr. Lazelle to return, partly be- 
cause she had hoped to win him over to her side, and 
partly because she was, herself, really unshaken. 
The presence of an old friend was comforting to her 
unsettled mind ; but she had seen at once that all his 
forces were arrayed against her. No difference of 
opinion could ever estrange her from the rector ; yet 
his steady opposition made her angry. She was all 
the more angry because she felt that he was right, 
and knew that he looked, with unflinching gaze, into 
that innermost self of hers which troubled her. 

“You will be as well as ever to-morrow,” she re- 
peated. And then, as her eyes rested on the pale 
face at her side, she was conscious of a miserable 
heart-sickness. 

What if Tracy should be ill, after all? What if 
these young feet, that she had coaxed and guided into 
her chosen path, should stop forever? It is a dan- 
gerous thing to direct another person’s life. To 
wake up and find that one has been a blind leader 


BREAKING FREE. 


1 65 


is bad enough ; but the worst pang comes when we 
see what we have done to our followers. We might 
have borne our own ruin philosophically ; but it is 
the sight of their miry robes and bleeding feet that 
drives us to despair. Perhaps they were not blind at 
all, but stumbled after their sightless guide with the 
noble foolishness of loyal hearts, foreseeing, all too 
clearly, the end of the journey. 

“ My dearest child, you are taking nothing,” she 
said, with a tremor in her voice. “ O Tracy, are you 
going to make us all wretched? When trouble comes, 
it shows me that I am an old woman !” 

“ Are you not making the trouble worse than it is?” 
Mr. Lazelle asked. “ We can never see anything 
plainly until we have first looked full at the -truth. 
It is not Tracy who is making us all wretched.” 

“You mean that I am the misery-maker,” ex- 
claimed grandma. 

“Match-makers are often misery-makers,” he an- 
swered calmly. 

“You are a match-maker yourself, Mr. Lazelle! 
You are always marrying people.” 

“ I do not make marriages, Mrs. Taunton. I ask 
for a blessing upon them.” 

“ Do not let us talk about marriage. ” It was Tracy 
who spoke in a low, shaken voice. “ I want to for- 
get it altogether. ” 

Grandma moaned audibly. 

“Your mind needs rest,” said the rector kindly, 
and he patted one of the little hands which lay list- 
lessly in the girl’s lap. 

“There cannot be any rest till things are defi- 
nitely understood,” she cried. “If it could be set- 
tled without seeing Alfred ” 

“Tracy, you are demented!” interrupted Mrs. 
Taunton, throwing up both hands. “ Do you think 
that Alfred will accept his dismissal without an inter- 
view? Be just and give him a chance to plead his 
cause. ” 


166 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE* 


“ Mr Lazelle, must I see him again?" 

"She does not heed me," wailed the old lady. 
“ She has turned against her own grandmother!" 

In an instant Tracy’s arms were round her neck. 
"My darling old granny,” she murmured between 
her kisses, "you have no idea how fond I am of you. 
I have never loved you better than when I have 
been perfectly convinced that you were the most ex- 
asperating old lady in the world. I want to live 
with you always— always ; don’t you understand?” 

" Oh, ” said Mrs. Taunton tearfully, " I have al- 
ways loved you ten times better than Laura, but 
I wish you were more like her! If I could only 
make a rational, commonplace girl of you, we might 
all be happy yet.” 

“Perhaps we might,” Tracy answered sadly. 
" It is well to have high ideals for one’s self, but 
it is quite natural that our relations should find 
them inconvenient. At this moment, grandma, I 
have a great desire to go out of the world.” 

"I have had that desire many times, ” remarked 
Mr. Lazelle; "but it has not been granted yet. 
Those who wish to go are made to stay. It is the 
impatient scholar who is kept longest in school.” 

The kind voice and wise words had a quieting 
influence. Tracy looked up at him with gratitude 
in her tired eyes. 

"We are very foolish this evening,” said grandma,, 
trying hard to recover herself. “ Next week we shall! 
smile contemptuously at our own folly. Alfred 
will call to-morrow, I dare say; and then, Tracy,, 
you tnust be reasonable, and listen to all that he 
says. ” 

"I will listen to him, grandma; but nothing 
that he can say will shake my resolution. It has all 
been wrong from the beginning. I promised to love 
him, thinking that love would follow the promise.” 

" Instead of which,” said Mr. Lazelle, " the promise 
should have followed the love.” 


BREAKING EREE. 


167 

“ Now you are wandering off into your mystical 
nonsense!” Mrs. Taunton cried. “Anyhow, Tracy, 
you did promise, that is a fact that cannot be denied. ” 

“ I do not attempt to deny it, grandma.” 

“You must be reasonable, my dear child,” the old 
lady repeated. “When you see Alfred again he 
will explain everything. This is your first quarrel, 
and you think it is to be an ending, but ” 

“ I wish you would understand me, grandma. 
There must be an ending. No one knows what it 
costs me to distress you.” 

“ It would distress me exceedingly if a grandchild 
of mine were to break her promise. I hold that 
covenant-breaking is one of the blackest sins of hu- 
manity. ” 

“ I do not, ” said the rector stoutly. “ And I think 
that Montjoy has given Tracy good reason for 
breaking her promise.” 

“ How terribly hard you are on that poor fellow,” 
Mrs. Taunton exclaimed angrily. “ Do you con- 
sider the effect that this parting may have on him? 
He may be ruined — utterly ruined — if Tracy throws 
him off.” 

“ When there is a cross that must be borne either 
by a man or a woman, the man ought to take it 
upon himself,” said Mr. Lazelle. “If he refuses to 
take it he is a cur. Above all things this poor child 
desires her freedom. Is it right, is it noble, to keep 
her bound, because Montjoy does not want to let her 
go?” 

“Everybody will say that she has been jilted,” 
said Mrs. Taunton, suddenly shifting her ground. 
“ All the spiteful people in the county will rejoice 
over her humiliation. I shall never, never dare to 
show my face!” 

Tracy looked at her with a sad little smile. The 
rector made a movement of impatience. 

“I shall be ready to rejoice with them, grandma,” 
she said. “ Sometimes congratulations are the sad- 


i68 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


dest words that one can hear, and condolence the 
sweetest. It is better that the knell should toll for 
me than the wedding-bells chime.” 

“We have nothing now to do with knells,” put in 
Mr. Lazelle quickly. “ This is no occasion for mel- 
ancholy talk. As for the spiteful people, they make 
merry if they please ; but I see no reason why my 
old friend should not dare to show her face. It is 
a very comely face still,” he added pleasantly. 

Grandma was very fond of compliments, and a 
faint smile hovered round her mouth for a moment, 
But it soon vanished. Tracy was the care of her 
heart, the apple of her eye, but this kind of love is 
always near akin to tyranny ; there was, therefore, an 
involuntary flash from her eyes as she looked at the 
girl, sitting white and calm by her side. 

“ If there is really no hope of a reconciliation, we 
had better leave Ferngate,” she said, after a pause, 
“ You may be indifferent to public opinion, Tracy, 
but I cannot bear to see you the laughing-stock of 
the place. The Tauntons have always held up their 
heads in the world, I wish you had a little more 
proper pride, ” 

The rector bent forward, resting his arm on the 
table, and looking into grandma’s face with an in- 
tense expression that almost awed her. 

“Mrs. Taunton,” he said, “you must not try to 
force the child’s heart. There is not the slightest 
hope of a reconciliation. The sooner you accept 
this truth, the better it will be for you. We all 
have to relinquish some splendid possibilities in our 
lives. For my part, I am thankful for Tracy’s re- 
lease. He was utterly unworthy of her. To-day 
she has had to choose between the blessing of free- 
dom and the curse of bondage; and she has chosen 
the blessing.” 

Those last words sank deeply into the old lady’s 
mind, and sealed her lips. She urged Tracy no 
more. 


CHAPTER XXIII, 


DISQUIET, 

“If she loves at last, 

Her love’s a readjustment of self-love, 

No more.” 

— Mrs. Browning.- 

Grace watched silently and eagerly for Alfred’s re- 
turn from his morning walk, Mrs, Endon went 
downstairs much disquieted in mind, and carried 
her crewels and canvas into the library. Lady 
Montjoy often spent her mornings in that room, and 
the widows had fallen into the habit of chatting 
confidentially over their work there. But Mrs. En- 
don had no wish for a confidential chat this morning, 
She was worried and perplexed about her daughter, 
and wanted to think over her troubles in solitude, 
Yet, as she owed something to her hostess, who had 
been invariably kind, she stifled the desire to be 
alone and entered the library with her usual smile. 

Lady Montjoy was there, but she was not smiling. 
She looked up anxiously as her friend came in. 

“Julia,” she began, “ did you see Alfred before he 
went out this morning?” 

Mrs. Endon hesitated for an instant. Then she 
seated herself' deliberately and opened her work- 
bag, not glancing at Lady Montjoy at all. 

“ I happend to catch a glimpse of him from Grace’s 
window,” she answered composedly. 

“ Where is Grace now? Did she go out with him?” 

“ Oh, no ; she is in her own room, doing something 
to one of her dresses.” 


169 


170 


THROUGH PAIN To RRACfi. 


“Ah,” sighed Lady Montjoy, “I hoped she had 
gone with him. ” 

Mrs. Endon was silent, and went on with her 
work in a manner suggestive of industrious intention. 

“Julia,” said her friend, after a pause, “you are 
a happy woman. You have a child who never gives 
you the slightest cause for uneasiness. ” 

Mrs. Endon worked rather faster. 

“ Grace is a good girl, ” she responded quietly. 

“A very good girl. Sometimes I wish that I 
had a daughter instead of a son. Now that we have 
settled in this stupid place, I have time to study Al- 
fred’s wa5^s, and he makes me unhappy.” 

“You know, Clara, that you can’t expect a young 
man to be perfect. He will do as others do,” said 
Mrs. Endon, dexterously filling her needle. 

“ I wish he would do as Walter Roche does.” 

“ Well, I do not care very much for Walter Roche 
myself,” Mrs. Endon confessed. “He always seems 
to me to be watching people and finding out some- 
thing to their disadvantage. I don’t quite trust 
those men who are outwardly cautious and correct.” 

“ Oh, I never supposed that Mr. Roche was a saint, ” 
said Lady Montjoy irritably. “ But he is a pleasant 
man to have in the house, because he doesn’t take 
more wine than is good for him.” 

Mrs. Endon had nothing to say. Her eyes were 
fixed on her canvas. 

“You must have noticed Alfred’s weakness, Julia: 
you are always observant. Can you wonder that I 
am anxious?” 

Straightforwardness was the best policy here. 
Mrs. Endon stayed her hand for a moment. 

“No, Clara, I don’t wonder at your anxiety. 
Your son does drink a little more than he ought, and 
this lazy country life encourages the habit. Men 
often drink simply because they lack occupation.” 

“ Nothing has gone well with him since he came to 
this detestable old place!” Lady Montjoy cried. “ I 


DISQUIET. 


171 

wish we had left it to the rats and the tramps. Not 
one happy hour have I ever known here. If he 
would break off his miserable engagement and come 
away from Woodcourt, there might be a chance of 
happiness yet!” 

“But Woodcourt is a charming home,” said Mrs. 
Endon, with a glance out of the window. The 
peacock had come back to the terrace and was 
spreading out his plumes in the sun; and the white 
pigeons had fluttered down again to perch upon the 
gray-stone urns. Beyond, through a break in the 
trees, could be seen a silvery glimpse of the lake; 
the long green aisles were shadowy and still. As 
Mrs. Endon’ s eyes wandered over this fair scene, 
she felt that it might be possible to forgive Alfred’s 
sins for the sake of securing such a resting-place. 
And then she thought of her daughter upstairs, and 
remembered that Grace was actually possessed of a 
heart. An inconvenient possession, surely, and one 
which is sometimes given away where it is not asked 
for. She sighed when she thought of Grace. 

“ It, has no charms for me,” replied Lady Montjoy, 
with a melancholy shake of the head. “ If Alfred 
marries that dreadful girl, I shall go as far away as 
I can. I wish — oh, I wish ” 

She left the sentence unfinished and sank back in 
her chair. Footsteps were heard approaching the 
door, and presently Walter Roche walked into the 
room, with a peculiar expression on his face. 

“ Has Alfred come back yet?” Lady Montjoy asked. 
“ It must be nearly time for lunch.” 

“Yes, he has come back,” Roche responded. “I 
saw him near the stables a minute ago.” 

“Did he say that he had been to the Tauntons’?” 
she inquired. 

“ No ; I don’t think he went to the Laurels, ” replied 
Walter Roche in a hard, dry tone, which made Mrs. 
Endon look up. He met her inquisitive gaze and 
turned away. 


T 7 2 


THROUGH RAIN TO PEACE. 


“ Something has happened,” she thought. 

“ Then where has he been?” demanded Lady Mont- 
joy, noticing that Roche was not at ease. “ He 
went off soon after breakfast, did he not?” 

“ I don’t know when he went off. I rode to Fern- 
gate this morning to call on the Arundels. They 
are getting up a bazaar for the organ-fund, and they 
want to arrange some tableaux. I suppose you will 
do something to help them, Lady Montjoy?” added 
Roche, trying desperately to get back his usual 
manner. 

“I suppose I must, but I hate bazaars,” she an- 
swered. 

“ So do most people, ” said Walter cheerfully. “ But 
this won’t be as bad as they generally are. They 
are going to have a snow cavern, full of treasures, 
and Father Christmas presiding over them. There 
will be plenty of attractions.” 

He had got himself well in hand now, or thought 
that he had. Grace Endon came in, swiftly and 
silently, and her mother saw that there was a fever- 
ish brightness in her eyes. Nobody was quite natural 
and they were all trying to keep up appearances, 
and Mrs. Endon was sick of the whole business; 
wanted to go away somewhere and be quiet. 

The gong sounded for luncheon and Alfred ap- 
peared at last. Every one looked at him excepting 
Walter Roche, who gazed steadfastly at a picture on 
the wall. 

“My dear Alfred,” said Lady Montjoy, rashly, 
“how tired and hot you look.” 

His face was flushed and inflamed, and there was 
an angry sparkle in the eyes that met hers. 

“ Fve been into the woods, ” he answered, “and 
there wasn’t a breath of air to be had. The trees 
want thinning ; I never saw a place so shamefully 
neglected. It is enough to make a man hot when 
he sees things going to ruin.” 

“Oh, you will soon set everything right,” said 


DISQUIET. 


173 

Grace, smoothly. “ And it is a good thing that you 
have something to spend your energy upon. For my 
own part, I have an immense fund of energy that is 
never called for at all.” 

When they were seated at luncheon, Alfred’s tem- 
per very nearly broke through the slight bonds that 
usually restrained it in society. Lady Mont joy was 
not happy in her remarks that day. She was in one 
of those painful conditions of mind which always 
produce unlucky speeches. In this mood, any sen- 
tence that she uttered was certain to make mischief. 
The girl in the fairy tale who dropped toads and 
spiders from her mouth was scarcely more unfor- 
tunate. 

“ The air of Woodcourt does not agree with Alfred,” 
she said, addressing the company generally. “ It is 
too soft and relaxing. He has never been really 
well since he came here. I saw a great change in 
him when I arrived.” 

“ I am perfectly well,” declared her son, with half- 
suppressed fury. “ Before your arrival there was a 
glorious time of pleasantness and peace. Things 
have been going wrong ever since you took the 
reins.” 

Mrs. Endon winced perceptibly. She had enough 
genuine liking for her old friend to be pained for her 
sake. Grace, with a heightened color, glanced 
swiftly from the son to the mother. 

“Well,” said LadyMontjoy, with resignation, “I 
am quite willing to give up the reins to somebody 
else. I dare say she will take my place very soon.” 

There was a little crash at the other end of the 
table. Alfred had broken a claret glass. He looked 
so hot, and angry, and confused, that Grace felt sure 
there had been a serious lovers’ quarrel. Would it 
ever be made up? she wondered. And then, with 
a woman’s instinct, she guessed the truth. 

Something that she had wished to happen had 
'really happened. Tracy had met Alfred that morn- 


i74 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


ing, and the result of that meeting could easily be 
imagined. 

“ I knew she would hate him if she saw him when 
he was drunk,” thought Grace, concentrating her 
attention on her plate and tasting nothing that she 
ate. “ It is well that her eyes should be thoroughly 
opened. What has a romantic dreamer like Tracy 
to do with a man of Alfred’s stamp? I should like 
to know if she has snapped the chain. Mr. Roche 
might tell me if he could be made to speak. I be- 
lieve he has heard all about it. ” 

She was quite certain that “ he had heard all about 
it ” when she ventured to glance at him. Every 
vestige of expression had been carefully effaced from 
his countenance. No face could have been more 
perfectly innocent of any trace of human emotion. 

“ When a man looks as vacant as that, he always 
knows a great deal,” was Grace’s conclusion. 

Lady Montjoy had arranged to go out driving with 
the Endons in the afternoon. The drive would be 
short if they were to return at dusk ; and Grace was 
glad to escape to her room to get ready. She ran 
upstairs, and swept through the corridors of the old 
house with a swiftness that was more like Tracy 
than herself. 

Her heart was throbbing wildly when she shut her 
door and sank into a chair. She was not accus- 
tomed to these strong pulsations ; life had never been 
so exciting before. All her hopes and fears had been 
of the tamest kind. 

“Mamma will be coming in a moment,” she 
thought. “ Mamma is a person who never can let one 
alone. She is so afraid that I shall betray myself that 
she worries me into doing it. My cheeks would not 
have got so hot at luncheon if she hadn’t watched me. 
There are times in a woman’s life when a mother is 
the last person who ought to interfere. She knows 
too much and yet understands nothing.” 

She rose suddenly, remembering that the carriage 


DISQUIET. 


175 


would be at the door at a quarter to three. Her 
fingers trembled as she put on a close hat and covered 
her face with a thick-spotted net veil that hid the 
tell-tale flush. As she fastened her fur-lined cloak 
the handle of the door was turned. Mrs. Endon 
came softly in. 

“O Grace!” she said. 

“ Well, mamma?” 

“I am feeling very nervous and uncomfortable,” 
began the poor lady, speaking in a low voice. “ We 
are on the verge of a disturbance. This household 
will be soon broken up, I fancy.” 

“Households are always breaking up,” responded 
Grace in a dry tone, as she opened her glove-box. 

“ Grace, you are pretending that you don’t feel any- 
thing; but I can see through the pretence. You are 
restless and anxious.” 

“ Did you come on purpose to tell me that, mam- 
ma?” 

“Yes, I did,” said Mrs. Endon candidly. “I 
think you are expecting something, and I am afraid 
of disappointment.” 

“You need not be afraid of anything,” Grace re- 
plied. “ I am not a child. Whatever comes, I can 
meet it.” 

“I hope you can,” said her mother. “I do hope 
you can. There is the carriage. ” 

They went downstairs, and found Montjoy and 
Roche lounging in the hall. Although the weather 
was mild, a log was burning in the great fireplace, 
and the collie lay stretched upon the gray wolf-skin 
before it. Grace scarcely glanced at the men ; she 
went up to the dog and patted his head with a cheer- 
ful word. Then she followed her mother and seated 
herself in the carriage. 

“ There’s no nonsense in that woman,” said Alfred, 
in a moody tone. “ She’s always the same.” 

“Yes,” responded Roche quietly, “always the 
same.” 


176 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“ If I had known what was good for me, I suppose 
I should have got engaged to a girl like that.” 

“Yes,” responded Roche again. 

“But then I shouldn’t have had what I wanted,” 
Alfred went on, a dark flush overspreading his face. 
“I’ve got the girl I fancied, and I don’t mean to 
give her up.” 

He slightly tossed his head backward as he spoke 
and looked defiantly at Roche. There was a brief 
pause; the log crackled, the dog yawned. Walter 
paced to and fro, looking down on the red and black 
squares at his feet. He was pale and wore a set 
look ; but his face was still so guarded that it ex- 
pressed absolutely nothing. 

“I don’t mean to give her up, ” Alfred repeated. 
“ I shall see her to-morrow. She will have had time 
to cool, and we shall begin afresh. But there’s one 
thing that I’m resolved to do without any more 
delay and humbug.” 

“ What is that?” Roche asked. 

“I’m going to get married. My mother says she 
is willing to give up the reins; and upon my word 
she shall! We are all getting along badly here. I 
shall hurry on the wedding. ” 

Roche walked up to the fire and stopped. 

“There is Miss Taunton’s consent to be gained,” 
he said. “Will she allow herself to be hurried on? 
Are you quite sure that she does not mean to end 
the matter?” 

“ She will be talked over, ” returned Alfred confi- 
dently. “ Her grandmother knows how to manage 
her. I shall let her see that I am not to be daunted 
by a girl’s temper. She has said yes and she must 
stick to yes. By and by I shall have it all my own 
way, and she will find that she has a master.” 

Just for an instant a change flashed over Roche’s 
inexpressive face. He flung a glance of intense 
wrath and scorn at his host. But Alfred did not see 
it, and it vanished as swiftly as it came. 


DISQUIET. 177 

“I shall go to the Laurels to-morrow,” he said, 
“ and get everything finally settled.” 

There was nothing more to say. Roche had his 
own reasons for not prolonging the talk, and mur- 
mured something about going to write letters. 

12 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


“we must part.” 

“Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair? 

Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth 
Tell you — I do not nor I cannot love you?” 

— Midsummer Night’s Dream. 

It was raining when Tracy awoke the next morn- 
ing, but she opened her eyes with the consciousness 
that she was looking out upon a happier world. 

She was going to be free. The worst part of the 
struggle was over. There was nothing more to fear 
from grandma, who had retired *from the conflict 
after that last passage-at-arms with the rector. She 
had made a silept vow that she would not urge her 
grandchild again ; she would leave the affair in 
Tracy’s hands, telling the girl to do that which 
seemed best to herself. 

Barbara, who had been told nothing, suspected 
everything. Miss Tracy was just her old self, that 
was all ; the naughtiest, queerest being that ever 
was. But even Barbara (who professed to be hard- 
ened against all surprises) could hardly help starting 
when she saw the brightness of Tracy’s morning face. 

The rain continued to fall, but what did that 
matter to a joyful heart? The very room seemed 
to have changed its aspect: it was once more the 
dear, familiar little room which had sheltered her 
childish slumbers. She admired the drapery of her 
window, which was white, spotted with rose-buds, 
and bordered with ball-fringe. She looked affec- 
tionately at every simple decoration which her own 
hands had made, the wall-pockets, and pictures so 
i 7 8 


WE MUST PART. 


179 


arranged as to indicate an artist’s eye and skilful 
fingers ; the foreign trifles that gave a piquant bright- 
ness to the apartment. It was her own beloved old 
sanctum still ; she was not called upon to leave it for 
a stately chamber hung with tapestry, furnished 
with carved oak, and haunted by the restless ghosts 
of departed Montjoys. 

When she rose and dressed she was conscious 
that the events of yesterday had shaken her. But 
it was a happy face which confronted her in the 
glass, although there were dark shadows under the 
eyes and the cheeks were even paler than usual, A 
bunch of pansies stood on the toilet-table, and she 
chose two or three that were purple in hue and fas- 
tened them at the neck of her lavender serge gown. 
Thus arrayed, she looked something like one of Mr. 
Burne Jones’ graceful maidens, just ready to have 
some mystic sentence emblazoned in antique letters 
at her feet. 

Grandma was first at the breakfast-table, of course. 
Looking back on all the peaceful mornings of the 
past, Tracy could not recall one time when grandma 
had not been first. She sat in her usual place behind 
the urn, wearing an old cap with brown ribbons 
which Tracy had not expected to see again. A closer 
inspection proved that she had put on an ancient 
black silk apron, on which there were one or two 
little greasy spots that would not come out. She 
had also donned a white silk kerchief which had 
seen its best days, and had fastened it with a bat- 
tered mourning brooch which, as a rule, was only 
worn when her other brooches had lost their pins. 
Her whole appearance expressed patient resignation 
to the decrees of Providence, and meek preparation 
for a change in circumstances. 

But it was so nice to see her sitting there, and to 
feel that one would not be torn away from her! The 
comfort of her presence warmed Tracy’s heart and 
made her rejoice anew. 


i8o 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“Oh, you dearest old woman," she said, with a 
rapturous embrace. “How shabby you are to-day ! 
I thought that this kerchief was made into a duster 
long ago. And why will you disfigure yourself with 
that disreputable old apron?" 

Grandma did not resent these remarks. She had 
wished that her shabbiness should be noticed. She 
was prepared to endure her disappointment dramati- 
cally. 

“ I have put my best things away," she said mildly. 
“ It will be a long time before I can afford to get 
any more. There will be many new expenses, of 
course." 

“ What are the new expenses?" Tracy asked. 

“ Why, of course, we must travel ; and travelling 
costs money. After — after the engagement is defi- 
nitely broken off we must go away. It will be best 
to go before the matter is noised abroad. ” 

“No, it won’t," replied Tracy, kissing her again 
with double heartiness. “ I decline to be dragged 
away to unknown regions in the beginning of winter, 
and you would be utterly miserable if you went. I 
want to enjoy my books, and my painting, and my 
home, and my granny ! We shall have our old happy 
days back again." 

“O Tracy, I am surprised at you," Mrs. Taunton 
sighed. 

“ It is good for you to have these surprises. With- 
out them, your life would be as tame as an old song. 
While you grumble at me for saying and doing unex- 
pected things, you enjoy them unconsciously. You 
are like the little fir tree in the Danish story-book, 
and don’t realize your own happiness. Dear grand- 
ma, what a flood of eloquence I have expended upon 
you!" 

“You have, indeed," said Mrs. Taunton, trying 
not to smile too much; “and the coffee is getting 
cold. Sit down and begin breakfast. " 

“ You must promise to go upstairs presently and 


WE MUST PART. 


take off that cap and apron. ” Tracy gave her a final 
hug as she spoke. “Yes, and that loathly duster 
that sits limply on your shou ders. No matter how 
you are dressed, you are always a lovely old person ; 
but I would fain see your charms set off to the best 
advantage.” 

Grandma was secretly well pleased, although she 
pretended to despise this nonsense. She had made 
her little impression, and that was what she cared 
for. From her youth up she had always enjoyed 
making impressions : you were not. a person of con- 
sequence, she opined, unless you did make them. 
She was a quiet woman, with a love of peace and 
stillness, yet when she had occasion to come out of 
her retirement, there was nothing that pleased her 
better than the thought that she had created a mild 
sensation. 

They lingered over their morning meal with a 
pleasant laziness which was not often permitted in 
that well-ordered house. The breakfast- room, in 
which they were sitting, was only divided from the 
drawing-room by a door and a curtain. The win- 
dows of both these rooms overlooked the garden. 

It was still raining. The little rustic summer- 
house was surrounded with dripping shrubs and 
leafless sticks and trailers; not a vestige of the 
golden days remained. Dead leaves, wet and shiny, 
were scattered over the neat gravel walks: there 
were small pools here and there. Grandma touched 
the bell to summon Barbara, and turned her chair 
away from the window. 

“I don’t want to look out of doors to-day,” she 
said, drawing nearer to the fire. “ Bring me my 
knitting, Tracy; it has been neglected lately. Rainy 
days are good for work. Are you going to do any 
darning?” 

Tracy took her work-basket out of the cupboard at 
the bottom of the book-case and looked ruefully at 
a little pile of hose. Then her face brightened. 


182 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


She sat down on the other side of the fire and set 
to work in real earnest, feeling that grandma eyed 
her with a glance of approval. 

“After all, grandma,” she remarked, “there is 
nothing that becomes a girl so well as to sit quietly 
at needle- work. Not fancy-work, you know, but 
good, homely sewing or darning. ” 

“I quite agree with you,” Mrs. Taunton replied, 
“and I wish you had seen the beauty of darning 
earlier in life. ” 

“It is never too late to darn,” said Tracy cheer- 
fully. “ I think I look nicer now than when I am in 
my studio, knitting my brows and rumpling my 
hair. I will devote one day every week to this 
domestic occupation. We get on very well together, 
don’t we, granny? You are not tired of me, are 
you?” 

“I have never been tired of you, my dear; and I 
never shall be,” Mrs. Taunton answered. “As you 
are so happy in this simple home life, you do well 
to go on living in it while it lasts. I suppose it is 
a mistake to be over-anxious about your future. ” 

“ My future ! It seems as far off now as it did when 
I was a child,” said Tracy, in her clear, sweet voice. 
And she dropped her work to look out into the gar- 
den with dreamy eyes. 

At the sound of the door-bell grandma started. 
The peal resounded through the quiet house, break- 
ing up the calm enjoyment of the two women who 
sat by the fire. 

“I knew he would come,” said Mrs. Taunton, 
drawing a long breath. 

“ Never mind, grandma. The earlier he comes, 
the sooner it will be over. ” 

Tracy rose, drew herself up with the air of a prin- 
cess, and went quietly into the drawing-room to 
receive her lover. No sooner had she gone than 
grandma, anxious and tremulous, softly unclosed the 
door of communication without disturbing the folds 


WE MUST PART. 


« 


>> 


183 


of the curtain. She could hear the two voices with 
perfect distinctness. 

“Tracy,” said Alfred, advancing quickly and tak- 
ing her hand in a strong clasp. 

At his touch a little shiver of cold ran through her. 
She tried to draw her hand away, but he held it fast 
and drew her closer to him. 

“Won’t you look at me, dear, and let me speak to 
you?” he went on. “We will forget all about yes- 
terday and begin again. When girls are angry they 
say a thousand things that they don’t mean. I am 
sure that you do not really want to give me up. I 
can’t believe it.” 

“We must part,” she said quietly. “Alfred, you 
must set me free. It will be better for us both. ” 

As she spoke she made a resolute effort to release 
herself from his hold. But he would not let her go. 
With his natural vanity and arrogance he refused to 
accept the unwelcome truth. “To begin with,” he 
argued mentally, “she is a woman, and therefore 
to be won. I want her and she is mine.” He 
had expected that there would be little difficulties 
to overcome. Tracy was prouder than most girls; 
for pride’s sake she would keep him at arm’s-length 
for a time. But he truly believed that he should 
conquer in the end. Patience and perseverance, he 
thought, were needed here. 

“You are tired,” he said gently. “I never saw 
you look so pale. Darling, I am sorry that you were 
distressed ; I know that you are delicate and over- 
sensitive; the things that upset you would not dis- 
turb other girls at all. You can’t expect a man to 
be quite perfect, you know.” 

“Love does not expect perfection,” she answered, 
still turning her face away from him. 

“ Then why do you quarrel with me for not being 
altogether faultless? I was in a passion yesterday, 
and you were angry. Can you not forgive and for- 
get?” 


184 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


She stood facing him like a statue, silent and im- 
movable. Then she lifted her eyes to his, and her 
fixed gaze seemed to look him through and through. 

“Alfred,” she said at last, “before yesterday I 
knew that I had made a mistake. I have known for 
many bitter weeks that the love which I promised 
to give you Was lacking. I had searched for it dili- 
gently in my heart and could not find it ; but you 
had my promise, and I meant to keep it. ” 

“And you must keep it, Tracy.” A hot flush 
mounted to his forehead. 

“ No, I must not.” Her glance did not quail be- 
fore his rising fury. “Yesterday I— almost hated 
you. I wish you would not make me say these 
things. I want to part with you quietly and peace- 
ably. Will you not go now and leave me?” 

“ I will not go,” he said hoarsely. “ I have looked 
upon you as a part of my own life, and I refuse to 
give you up.” 

To such a love as his hate is always a very near 
neighbor. If the look on his face meant anything 
at that moment, he was not far from wishing to 
silence forever the lips that bade him depart. 

As they stood there, confronting each other, every- 
thing in their first meeting came back to her in a 
flash. She remembered that she had thought him 
like the portrait of Claverhouse in his early days; 
and she had even time to think that the natures of 
these two men — cruel, revengeful, and passionate— 
were as similar as their faces. 

“ I have not changed,” he continued. “ I came here 
this morning to hurry on our marriage. I will not 
leave the house without seeing Mrs. Taunton. Did 
she not favor me from the first? You know that she 
did; and you know, too, that she hates the thought 
of your giving me up. Tracy, you are a foolish, 
self-willed girl, full of ideal dreams that are too fine 
for sensible people to understand. I see your faults 
and absurdities ; but, in spite of them all, you take 


WE MUST PART. 


I8S 

my fancy. And, by Heaven, I won’t be cheated out 
of my desire! I’ll marry you yet. When you struck 
me yesterday I only liked you the better for it.” 

He came closer to her, his eyes gleaming, his 
handsome face distorted with passion. The arm that 
he grasped bore the marks of his clutch imprinted 
on the soft flesh for days afterward. 

“I am not afraid of you,” she said coldly and 
haughtily. “You need not think to shake my reso- 
lution by violence. Let me go— you hurt my arm.” 

His answer was hissed into her ear with an oath, 
and his grasp tightened. 

No sooner had an involuntary cry of pain escaped 
her than the curtain which masked the door was 
flung aside. 

“ Have you taken leave of your senses, Montjoy?” 
asked the rector, walking quietly into the room. “ I 
want to have a word with you, if you please.” 

“Not now,” Alfred answered, loosening his hold 
of Tracy and looking round with a startled air. 
“ Not now; we are settling something ” 

“ We have settled everything,” the girl interrupted. 
“ I am tired and faint. There is no more to be 
said.” 

She vanished through the open door, which was 
instantly shut and locked by grandma’s trembling 
hands. Alfred stood glaring at the folds of the cur- 
tain. He had no idea what he should do next. 

But the rector’s moment had come. He stepped 
up to the young man, laid a kind hand on his shoul- 
der, and said a few words in a low voice. They were 
words that had an instantaneous effect. Alfred saw 
that it was time to go. 


« 


CHAPTER XXV 


A GREAT CALM. 

“Like veiled lightning asleep, 

Like the spark nursed in embers, 

The last look Love remembers ; 

Like a diamond which shines 
On the dark wealth of the mines, 

A spell is treasured but f6r thee alone. ” 

—Shelley. 

“It hasn’t been too much forme at all, grandma,” 
gasped Tracy, bringing out each syllable with a pain- 
ful effort. “ Of course I am pale — I turn pale always 
when anything horrid takes place. Don’t be fright- 
ened, you dear old granny.” 

“If I am not frightened,” rejoined Mrs. Taunton, 
struggling to be calm, “ it is because I have bolted 
both doors and the window is secured. Also, I 
have good reasons for believing that the awful 
young man is gone. I hear the rector trying to get 
in at this moment. ” 

“Then do let him in,” said Tracy, sitting upright 
with a deep sigh of relief. 

Grandma moved deliberately to the door, applied 
her ear to the crevice for an instant, and then slowly 
slipped back the bolt and opened it two or three 
inches. 

“Come in, my dear old friend,” she said, with a 
gush of genuine feeling. “ The child fainted; but 
she has come to herself again.” 

“ I didn’t faint,” declared Tracy feebly. 

Grandma made a gesture, signifying that “the 
child” was not to be contradicted. Mr. Lazelle 
smiled and came over to the arm-chair. He took 
1 86 


9 


A GREAT CALM. 


l8 7 


one of Tracy’s cold little hands in his — it was the 
left hand — and saw that she held the right arm 
stiffly. 

“ My poor little girl,” he said, in his kindly voice, 
“ I wish I could have spared you all this disturbance. ” 

“I didn’t deserve to be spared,” she answered 
softly. “ My own weakness is to blame for every- 
thing. I allowed myself to be talked into accepting 
him, although there was an inner voice which warned 
me.” 

“Don’t stifle that voice again, Tracy,” said the 
rector, with quiet earnestness. “ Listen to the in- 
ward warnings, shut your ears to the outside world, 
and commune with your own heart.” 

“ The Mystics of old days would have given the 
same counsel,” remarked Tracy, a smile hovering 
round her lips. 

“ What do you know about the Mystics?” he asked. 
'“ Have they talked to you in the quietness of your 
little sanctum upstairs? Remember that I do not 
counsel you to retire altogether from the world; only 
beware of closing the interior senses. You know 
that there is an inner ear-gate through which divine 
voices enter.” 

“ I have learned a lesson which will never be for- 
gotten,” said Tracy gently. “The words of the 
gypsy’s warning will often come back to me — ‘Be 
more fearful of the companionship which enchains 
than of the solitude that leaves you free. ’ But, Mr. 
Lazelle, I was never afraid of solitude; it was grand- 
ma who feared it for me.” 

“Yes,” he answered; “ I saw your danger. You 
listened to the outward instead of the inward voice.” 

Mrs. Taunton had gone oft in search of eau-de- 
cologne; and Tracy, soothed by the rector’s quiet 
voice, lay back restfully in the large arm-chair. The 
rain had ceased to fall ; the clouds had broken, and 
faint silvery gleams were shining over the wet gar- 
den. 


i88 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


Her face was still perfectly colorless; even the 
lips had paled ; and when her weary eyes were half- 
closed, the long lashes looked jet-black on the white 
cheek. As she tried to move her arm, there was a 
little quiver of pain about the mouth which made 
Mr. Lazelle’s heart hot within him. 

“ I wish he had hurt the left arm,” she murmured, 
after a pause. “ I— I do want to get back to my 
painting, you know.” 

This was the only kind of complaint which she 
was ever heard to make of Alfred’s brutality. It had 
been her own fault, she said, all her own fault. 
Grandma, who now shuddered demonstratively at 
the mention of his name, would have abused him 
unsparingly if Tracy had not gently silenced her. 

“I made him suffer,” she remarked, opening her 
tired eyes a little wider and looking appealingly at 
the rector. “ It must not be forgotten that I exas- 
perated him very much. And he is not used to 
being thwarted, you see. It is a terrible misfortune 
to go through one’s childhood and youth without ex- 
periencing the wholesome discipline of being sat 
upon.” 

“There is a good deal of the brute in him,” said 
Mr. Lazelle, “ and I should have liked to horsewhip 
him to-day, ’* he added with an unusual outburst of 
temper. “ I hope I did not let him off too easily.” 

Tracy’s eyes opened a little wider still. 

“ How did you make him go?” she asked. 

“ A very few words did it,” the rector replied with 
rather a grim smile. “ I chanced to know some- 
thing which there is now no need for you to know. ” 

“Ah,” said Tracy, with a long sigh of intense 
relief. She did not ask any more questions, but 
rested in the chair, leaning her head upon its back 
and looking dreamily before her. The day bright- 
ened ; there was more of the silver and less of the 
gray, and here and there the glitter of the rain-pools 
lit up the drenched garden-walks. It all seemed 


A GREAT CALM. 1 89 

sweet to Tracy, with the new sweetness that a heart 
at ease finds in familiar things. 

“It is good to sit here at peace,” she said, in a 
gentle, musing voice. “I don’t think I ever loved 
that old garden as well as I do to-day, although it 
has scarcely a flower to boast of. I wonder if I 
shall feel anything like this when the imperishable 
part of me is separated from the perishable? Will 
well-known scenes be sweeter to the released spirit 
than they were before it was set free?” 

Mr. Lazelle smiled. 

“ One always asks those questions when one is in a 
peaceful mood, Tracy,” he replied. “Peace is so 
rare on earth that when it comes it gives us a dis- 
embodied feeling. As to what you ask — well, it is 
enough for us to believe that all our innocent loves 
will survive the body’s decay. But it is not those 
old trees and walks that ' you really love. It is the 
love within you that flows out over them, and makes 
them dear. Don’t you remember what Keble says? 

“Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be 
As more of heaven in each we see.” 

“ That is true enough ; but the heaven must be in 
ourselves, and its light must shine from within us 
on the outer world, or friends and scenes will lack 
their charm.” 

“Yes,” said Tracy, with a little sigh. “Only 
there are some persons and some places -which even 
the light from within us cannot glorify.” 

Grandma returned, looking more composed, and 
bringing a flask of eau-de-cologne. She had shut 
herself up for a little while in her own room, and 
had emerged from that sanctum in her second-best 
cap, trimmed with mauve ribbons; she had also 
donned a new kerchief, and a smart watered-silk 
apron. At the sight of the dear old lady in her fes- 
tive array, Tracy uttered a cry of delight, and sat up- 
right in her chair, with the brightness coming back 
to her eyes. 


190 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“I don’t want any eau-de-cologne, grandma,” she 
declared. “ ‘Your beauty makes me glad, ' as Words- 
worth said about his little maiden. Not that you 
have ‘a rustic woodland air;’ and it cannot be said 
that you are ‘wildly clad.’ There is a dignity in 
your apparel which reminds me of all your past con- 
quests. You might be the Dowager Lady Burrow- 
field at this moment!” 

“No,” said grandma, with a very decided shake 
of the head. “ I rejoice to think that I am simply 
Mrs. Taunton, widow of one of the best and kindest 
of men. Lord Burrowfield had a temper, my dear. 
I once heard that he gave his wife a beating. It 
was a good providence that removed him from my 
path.” 

She stood in front of Tracy’s chair, and looked at 
her with a critical gaze. There were dark circles 
round the girl’s eyes that spoke of languor and pain; 
and after considering her for a moment in silence 
grandma shook her head again. 

“ You must go to bed, my child,” she said tenderly. 
“ We will have a fire in your room, and I shall come 
up there to sit with you. All that you need is a 
good rest. ” 

An hour later, when Tracy was lying quietly in her 
white nest, she felt that her grandmother had done 
wisely in sending her there. Her powers had been 
overtaxed that day ; the long strain of worry and per- 
plexity was over; but it had left her worn and weak. 

It comforted her not a little to feel that no one 
would take it amiss if she were to fall ill ; and it 
was this very thought that saved her from serious 
illness. She had only to lie on her pillow, and 
recover her strength; grandma would not require 
her to get strong all at once. There was leisure now 
for peace and reflection, while the tired frame was 
resting, and the weary heart beating quietly. As 
she lay there in the stillness, sheltered by her fresh 
white curtains, she began to realize that she was not, 


A GREAT CALM. 191 

and never had been, a strong woman — not half as 
strong, for example, as Grace Endon. 

The dusk came soon; the fire flickered in the 
twilight; grandma dozed in an arm-chair by the bed- 
side. The chill evening wind was whispering out- 
side the pane with muffled sighs and stealthy sounds ; 
but they did not sadden Tracy. A time was coming 
when she should stroll through summer lanes, drink- 
ing in the dewy breath of the clematis, and listening 
to the blackbird’s hymn. And again the dream- 
faces of long ago began to rise out of the shadows in 
the quiet room. Her knight seemed to smile down 
upon her with all the old grave sweetness in his eyes. 
Where, in this world, should she ever meet the gaze 
of eyes like his? Nowhere, perhaps; but the dream- 
hero had never been so dear as now. 

“I have come back to him,” she thought. “For 
months I have been wandering in a barren and dry 
land with strange companions. Nothing ever seemed 
real to me there; it was like a child’s feverish dream 
of flowers without perfume, and fruit without taste. 
Now I am awake again, and my spirit has rejoined 
its mate. We shall never be parted any more.” 

Three or four days went by while Tracy rested in 
her peaceful room upstairs. She did not know what 
Ferngate was saying of her, nor did she care. Grand- 
ma had sent a packet of golden gifts back to the 
giver ; and the rector was going about, industriously 
explaining that the two young people had never 
suited each other. Meanwhile, for Tracy there was 
a great calm. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


grace’s hopes. 

“The soldier frae the war returns. 

And the merchant frae the main, 

But I hae parted wi’ my love, 

And ne’er to meet again.” 

—Old Ballad. 

“ And the best of it all is that she did it herself. ” 
It was the day after that memorable parting in the 
drawing-room at the Laurels. The three ladies at 
the Court were sitting round the fire in the library, 
enjoying afternoon tea and the usual chat. It was 
Grace who had said those words in a tone of undis- 
guished triumph. Mrs. Endon glanced up at her 
daughter warningly, but she was answered with an 
exulting smile. 

Never, in the whole course of her decorous life, 
had Grace Endon felt as girlishly joyous as she did 
that day. Her winter dress of rich purple cloth 
had come down safely from town, and was found to 
be an admirable fit. She had put it on that morning 
with the conviction that it was a victor’s robe; and 
her self-confidence gave brightness to her eyes and 
cheeks. 

“She did it herself ,” she repeated. “Well, after 
this, mamma, I think we shall all believe in gypsy 
fortune-telling!” 

“ Grace, you must promise not to go near the 
gypsies,” said Mrs. Endon, stirring her tea uneasily, 

“ I promise willingly enough, mamma. There 
are no gypsies in the woods now. They have all 
gone away.” 

“ I am very glad to hear it,” replied Mrs. Endon. 

192 


grace’s hopes. 


1 9 3 


Lady Montjoy, with a well-contented air, was seated 
in a velvet-covered chair, and looked every inch the 
lady of the house. She felt that she was re-estab- 
lished securely in her proud position. She detested 
Tracy more than ever for having slighted her son ; 
but, although she talked freely of the girl’s insolence 
and heartlessness, she was rejoiced at what she termed 
the deliverance. 

“ Tracy Taunton is deeper than we ever suspected, ” 
she said. “ It is my belief that she thought her 
power was waning. That is what I shall tell my 
friends; I think she has taken care of herself.” 

It sometimes seems doubtful whether anyone has 
ever heard the true story of a broken match. Such 
a vast amount of ingenuity is always expended on 
the matter by the jilted one and his friends, that few 
outsiders ever behold the unadorned truth. Lady 
Montjoy was perfectly aware that she was going t( 
tell a string of fibs; she knew quite well that Alfred 
had passionately desired to hold the girl who had 
torn herself free ; but her conscience, as John Bunyan 
would have said, was seared with a hot iron. And 
Grace, who listened and smiled, was ready to pre- 
tend that she was right. 

“Alfred will go on better now,” the mother con- 
tinued. “ I shall have my boy again ; he was another 
person while that horrid girl held him in her net. 
If she had been at all nice she would have set him 
free sooner, and in a pleasanter fashion.” 

“ She was determined to have a quarrel and make 
a scene,” remarked Grace. 

“ It was very clumsily done,” said Lady Montjoy, 
with a sneer. “ And I always knew that she was 
incapable of loving any one. She liked to dream 
away her time over her painting ; if her grandmother 
had not roused her I don’t think she would have had 
energy enough to ensnare Alfred. I never liked her 
from the first. She was not in the least like other 
girls.” 


13 


194 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


She went in for being peculiar,” Grace observed, 
making a little grimace. “It is a good thing, you 
know, that she can paint. If she doesn’t marry she 
will have to get her own living one of these days.'” 

“Yes; I think she paints well enough to be heard 
of as an artist,” Lady Montjoy admitted. She had 
seen hundreds of pictures abroad and knew a little 
about art. “ There really is a touch of genius in all 
that she does. She is the kind of young person who 
is intended by Providence to work for her bread; 
and she .will succeed in earning it very well indeed.” 

“Sir Alfred does not care in the least for art,” 
said Grace. “ He never took any interest in her 
doings. They had no tastes in common.” 

Lady Montjoy gave her a swift glance, which Mrs. 
Endon saw and interpreted rightly. Grace was 
showing a trifle too rftuch satisfaction in Alfred’s re- 
lease. And Grace herseif, chancing. to look up just 
then, suddenly discovered that she had made a little 
blunder. 

It was not too late, she hoped, to retrieve her error. 
Her color deepened slightly, but she wisely refrained 
from saying anything more. Mrs. Endon, calm as 
ever, came skilfully to her daughter’s assistance. 

“ I was saying to Grace only yesterday that Lady 
Catherine Dare would be the very girl for your son, 
Clara,” she remarked, sipping her tea with an air of 
placid enjoyment. “ She is very handsome, isn’t 
she? And she has the love of field-sports and out-of- 
door games which would please Alfred. How well 
she looks on horseback!” 

“ Did you see the portrait of her, painted in her 
habit?” Grace asked, looking full at her hostess with 
a bright smile and innocent eyes. “ It was very 
good indeed. It was the sort of picture that would 
look splendid hanging over this mantelpiece. But I 
suppose it would not be right to disturb that mighty 
warrior. ” 

She gave an upward glance at the Montjoy in 


grace’s HOPES. 


195 


armor frowning above the old chimney-piece of 
carved oak. Lady Montjoy seemed amused at the 
notion. 

“ Disturb him ! My dear Grace, what a vivid 
imagination you have!” she exclaimed. “It is not 
at all likely that Catherine Dare’s portrait will ever 
find a place in. this house.” 

“ More unlikely things have happened, haven’t 
they?” Miss Endon said in a musing tone. “ Mamma, 
you told me to write to Aunt Dorothy, and I have 
never done so yet. Talking of Lady Catherine 
reminded me of Aunt Dorothy. She is staying at 
the rectory, close to their place in the North. How 
frightfully cold it must be there!” 

She rose deliberately and reluctantly, as she spoke, 
and went over to the writing-table, standing in one 
of the windows. She had often sat there to write 
Lady Mont joy’s notes and her own letters, and the 
movement seemed perfectly easy and natural. But 
Mrs. Endon knew that she had seen her danger and 
had cleverly retired from perilous ground. 

“You ought not to neglect your aunt, my dear,” 
she said. “ We have very few relations left, and 
Dorothy is really fond of you. Do you remember 
her, Clara? She was my husband’s only sister, you 
know, and we always got on together very well.” 

“I haven’t seen her for 3 T ea‘rs, ” Lady Montjoy an- 
swered. “ But she was very retty, I think, when 
she was young. ” 

“Very pretty.” Mrs. Endon set down her cup and 
saucer and took up her satin work-bag again. “ Very 
pretty, and always light-hearted till Major Deerham 
crossed her path. He used her very badly ; but I 
was always glad that she didn’t marry him: and, 
really, she is one of the cheeriest old maids I have 
ever seen. People like her, and ask her to their 
houses. ” 

“Ah, she is staying at Northern wood rectory,” 
said Lady Montjoy, suddenly. “ As you are writing, 


196 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

Grace, I wish you would ask her if there is any truth 
in the rumor about Catherine Dare and Lord Gay- 
worthy.” There was nothing to be learnt from the 
back of Grace’s neatly dressed brown head, and a 
second or two elapsed before she suffered her profile 
to be seen. 

“I will ask Aunt Dorothy, of course,” she said, 
quietly. “ But is it at all likely that Lady Cathe- 
rine’s people will let her think of Lord Gayworthy? 
That affair of his with Psyche Morison has not blown 
over yet.” 

“ The papers were full of it before I came home,” 
Lady Montjoy answered thoughtfully. “ Psyche 
Morison was a dancer, wasn’t she? Oh yes, I recol- 
lect it all now; Lord Gay worthy is a dreadful man. 
I should think the rumor couldn’t be true.” 

“ How did you hear it, Clara?” asked Mrs. Endon, 
setting her stitches as carefully as ever. 

“ Fanny Marstone mentioned it in one of her gos- 
sipy letters. I think she must have invented it. 
However, she really did state that Lord Rooksley 
had invited Gayworthy to Northernwood, and that 
he was always to be seen with Catherine. ” 

“ I do not believe that there is an atom of truth in 
It,” said Mrs. Endon, taking a fresh needleful of 
silk. “ But, Grace, you can ask your aunt to write 
by return. Dorothy is a woman who always knows 
everything.” 

“Very well,” assented Grace from the writing- 
table, and her pen travelled speedily over the paper. 
She had stamped and addressed her letter when Mr. 
Roche came in, and walked up to her side. 

“Sweets to the sweet,” he said, laying a monthly 
rose upon the blotting- book. 

Grace was unfeignedly surprised. She had known 
Walter Roche for years, and he had never made her 
a pretty speech nor given her a flower before. With 
a smile of thanks she looked up at the tall blond 
young man, and name suddenly to the- conclusion 


grace’s hopes. 


197 

that he was in a good humor with himself and all the 
world. 

Yet his face was as tranquil as ever. There was, 
however, a gleam of brightness in the gray eyes that 
were usually rather dull and moved slowly under 
their heavy lids. Roche was a languid man who 
gave one the impression of being utterly unemotional. 
His was the eternal calm of the Sphinx ; he seemed 
to be perpetually looking on as the processions of life 
filed past him, quite unmoved by eager faces or weary 
ones, quite untouched by gay voices or sad. 

Although not rich he was by no means poor 
enough to plead poverty as an excuse for remaining 
a bachelor. He could have afforded to marry if he 
had been a marrying man. But all attempts to win 
him had hitherto been met with such polished and 
gentle indifference that maids and matrons had given 
him up. He was one of the most courteous men in 
the world ; but is there any one more difficult to con- 
quer than a person who enfolds himself in a mantle 
of perfect courtesy? You may smite a warrior 
between the joints of his harness; but there is no 
exposed spot in the garb of the accomplished world- 
ling. 

Not for a moment did Grace misunderstand his 
little compliment. She knew that he was as cold to 
her now as he had been any time within the past five 
or six years. She felt sure that he had merely paid 
her this small attention because he was glad of some- 
thing. 

And yet, what was there to make him glad? Grace 
recalled a certain evening when she had asked him 
what he thought of Miss Taunton, and remembered 
his hesitation in answering. There is a good deal to 
be learnt from a man’s silence; in nine cases out of 
ten he thinks oftenest of the woman whose name he 
seldom speaks. When they were all discussing the 
broken match, Walter Roche had said as little as it 
was possible for any one to say. As a matter of fact, 


198 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


he had always been oddly disinclined to’ talk about 
Tracy at all. 

Miss Endon went upstairs to dress for dinner, carry- 
ing the rose in her hand, and caring very little about 
it. She put on her favorite gown ; but the first 
brightness of her atmosphere seemed to have become 
heavy, and she glanced around the room with a 
sense of dreariness. Alfred was free, it was true, 
but he did not yet belong to her. She was as far as 
ever from being the lady of Woodcourt. 

As she stood upon the hearth looking down into 
the fire, her mother quietly opened the door. Grace 
glanced up, not sorry to see the familiar figure in 
the black silk robe and white lace cap. It was curious, 
she thought a moment after, that the mere sight of 
such a well-known person should bring a sense of 
comfort with it this evening. Her mother had not 
always been so warmly welcomed. Grace made a 
swift involuntary movement toward her. 

“Mamma,” she said, “I believe I am a little ner- 
vous. Somehow, I am afraid of saying or doing the 
wrong thing. ” 

“You are cold,” replied Mrs. Endon, taking the 
hand that her daughter half unconsciously held out. 
“Yes, you are positively shivering. It is a sharp 
night; there is a change in the weather.” 

“I don’t think the weather affects me, mamma.” 

“ Yes, it does. And that crimson dress is too thin. 
Take it off, and put on your black velvet.” 

Grace obeyed mechanically, too much depressed 
to rely upon her own judgment. Mrs. Endon pro- 
ceeded to arrange the gown with deft, quiet touches ; 
then she folded a large kerchief of soft yellowish 
muslin about the shivering shoulders, and tied it in 
a loose knot. There was a bright red camellia on the 
table, and she set it daintily into the folds of lace toilet 
and muslin. “You look much better now, ” she said. 
“ Sit down by the fire. There is really nothing to 
trouble you. Clara has returned to her old idea of 


grace’s hopes. 


199 


getting Catherine Dare for Alfred. But it is quite 
hopeless. Catherine will marry Gay worthy — I am 
certain of it. ” 

“Aunt Dorothy will know,” remarked Grace. 

She was feeling comfortable again. The shiver- 
ing fit was over, and her usual composure had come 
back. It was a relief to know that her mother, who 
was not of a sanguine temper, thought hopefully of 
the state of affairs. Mrs. Endon sat down on the 
opposite side of the fire, and folded her hands on her 
lap. 

“ No one could have expected that Tracy would 
throw Alfred over,” she said. . “ I did not; it seemed 
impossible that such a thing could happen. Mind, 
Grace; I do not think that he will make the best of 
husbands; but I can see that your heart is set upon 
him. And I believe that you have a fair chance of 
obtaining your desire.” 

“ Lady Montjoy will set herself against me,” Grace 
replied. “ If it were not for her ” 

“ My dear child, can you not see that she has very 
little influence? When she finds that Catherine 
Dare is lost to her, she will regard you more favor- 
ably. Far better that he should choose an old friend 
than fall in love with another nobody ! Take cour- 
age, Grace.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


WON. 

“I that have slept, awake, and you 

Sleep, who last year were well awake : 

Though love do all that love can do, 

My love will never ache or break 
For your heart’s sake.” 

— Swinburne. 

As the dreary days went and came, Alfred was 
glad that the Endons stayed on in the house. Roche 
had left him, “selfish fellow, that Roche,” and had 
gone to spend a week with the Arundels at Ferngate. 
Some other men had been asked to Woodcourt, and 
were coming. Meanwhile, there was a spell of dul- 
ness which Grace knew well how to enliven. 

vShe noticed that he shunned the walks that led to 
the lake. And in truth that wide sheet of dark 
water, fringed all round with brown rushes and half- 
stripped trees, was by no means a cheerful Spot. 
Alfred would have gone away; but arrangements 
had been made to spend Christmas at the Court, and 
it would have been inconvenient to alter his plans. 

He never knew how it was that he began to talk 
with Grace about his lost love. Perhaps Grace 
knew. She was well aware of the advantage which 
a woman gains over a man when, she : becomes Ipis: 
confidante. And she was one of the best of listeners, 
saying just enough to express her sympathy ; never 
once committing the blunder of abusing Tracy too, 
much. 

She would wonder, in a cooing murmur, how Tracy 
could be so indifferent to the prize that she had won. 

200 


WON. 


201 


She would hint, quite intelligibly, the high value 
that other women would set upon that prize. Very 
carefully she followed Alfred’s moods as far as she 
,could divine them, and he liked her; she fitted into 
all the grooves of his habits and tastes. 

Three days went by, and on the fourth Grace came 
down to breakfast with an open letter in her hand. 

The breakfast-room, situated on the eastern side 
of the house, was a comfortable apartment, into 
which the gray light of the winter morning found its 
way. It was carefully curtained with heavy draperies, 
and warmed by a blazing fire; but when Grace en- 
tered she found Lady Montjoy looking ruefully out 
over the misty grounds. Alfred had come down 
stairs in a bad temper, anathematizing the horrible 
climate, and openly declaring his intention to com- 
mit suicide in the course of the next hour or two.. 
He greeted Grace with gloomy politeness. 

“ It is certainly a most depressing morning,” said 
his mother with a sigh. “You don’t mind these 
foggy days, Grace? Perhaps you have had good 
news?” 

“ No,” Grace answered, looking serious, and hand- 
ing the letter to her hostess.. “ Please read what 
Aunt Dorothy says. One really can’t help being 
sorry for Lady Catherine.” 

“Then it is true.” Lady Montjoy’s face looked, 
more worn than usual as she stood by the window.. 
The lines about the mouth deepened, the cheeks; 
seemed to fall in. Everything was going against, 
her. She read the first page of the letter in silence, 
and returned it to Grace with another sigh. 

“ Mother, how doleful you are!” cried Alfred with; 
a sudden burst of irritability. “What has happened 
to Catherine Dare? For my part, I don’t see how 
anything can happen to such a tremendously strong 
woman unless she has been kicked off her horse! 
and that’s hardly possible, with such a seat as she 
has!” 


202 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“She is going to marry Lord Gayworthy,” said 
Grace, demurely. 

“Ha, ha, ha!” 

Alfred’s laugh was so genuine that Grace adroitly 
turned her face from Lady Montjoy. She knew how 
intensely irritating that spontaneous outburst of 
mirth must be to the thwarted schemer; but she 
could not repress her own desire to smile. 

“Poor Gayworthy! He’ll run away from her be- 
fore six months are over his head. Ha! ha!” 

“You are always unjust to any favorite of mine, 
Alfred,” said Lady Montjoy, with some temper. 
“Catherine is a bright, vigorous woman, and it is 
to be hoped that she will reform him.” 

“ It’s to be hoped that she will, mother. But men 
of Gayworthy’s stamp are not usually tamed by 
Amazons.” Mrs. Endon, who came in at that mo- 
ment, was inwardly much amused and delighted. 
But her sympathetic greeting to her friend was per- 
fect. 

“ I know how grieved you must be, Clara ; you 
knew her so well. It must be a great surprise. ” 

“I don’t think anything will ever surprise me 
again,” rejoined Lady Montjoy in a dreary tone. 

Grace did not venture to exchange a glance with 
her mother as they sat down to breakfast. She 
allowed her host to catch a glimpse of the fun that 
sparkled in her eyes, and then devoted herself to 
her plate. There was not much to be got from her 
in the way of conversation that morning. Mrs. 
Endon talked in her usual mild strain, and poured 
oil upon the troubled waters. 

“You don’t mind fog, do you?” said Alfred to 
Grace, as they rose from the table. “ It’s a horrid 
morning, I know; but I’ve made up my mind to 
walk to Ferngate. There’s a pony there that I want 
to see. Will you come too?” 

Grace detested fog, and never took long walks if 

she could help it. But if he had asked her to walk 

* 


WON. 


203 


to the Land’s End she would have complied cheer- 
fully. 

“ I shall be glad to come,” she said. “Are we to 
start at once?” 

“Yes; before the weather gets any worse,” he 
replied. The mother and daughter had hoped for a 
confidential chat after breakfast. They were draw- 
ing nearer to each other now, and there were no 
secrets between them. Mrs. Endon made an ex- 
cuse to follow Grace upstairs. 

“ There never was such extraordinary good fortune 
as yours,” said the widow softly, when they were 
alone. “ Clara is thoroughly crushed by Lady Cathe- 
rine’s engagement. I don’t think she will object to 
anything now. As to Alfred, he is really too hard 
on her. He won’t be an easy husband to manage, 
Grace. ” 

“Well, mamma, I like him,” Grace answered sim- 
ply. “ I don’t look forward to a life of perfect ease. 
Doesn’t some one say that every marriage is more 
or less a failure? But to get one’s desire, that is 
the only thing which makes existence tolerable. ” 

“ My dear,” said Mrs: Endon, “ I think it is rather 
dangerous to have strong feelings. You will make 
an excellent match, and I am sure you will be a 
gobd wife; but nothing is more disappointing than a 
granted wish. I have lived in the world too long 
not to know what follows the attainment of a desire.” 

“Doesn’t it strike you that we are talking quite 
bookishly?” asked Grace, fastening her sealskin 
jacket with a well-contented air. “ I have never 
been given to sentiment, have I! And I won’t let 
it run away with my brain.” 

Mrs. Endon ’s smile expressed confidence. 

“You were always a sensible girl,” she said. 
“ When the matter is really arranged, I suppose 
Clara will find a new home. It would not be quite 
nice if she lived here. ” 

“It wouldn’t be nice at all,” responded Grace, 


204 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


with great decision. “ No one annoys Alfred as his 
mother does. Indeed, I think she is to be blamed 
for a great deal of his bad temper. When I am mis- 
tress here she must go. ” 

“Clara was always imperious/' Mrs. Endon re- 
marked. “ At school she tried to manage everything 
for everybody, and she has been doing it ever since. 
What do you mean to do with me, Grace?" 

“ I mean to keep you with me, mamma. You will 
be useful in all sorts of ways, and I don’t want to 
part with you. ” 

They kissed each other almost as affectionately as 
if they had not been a couple of worldly schemers. 
Grace gave a final touch to the pretty purple hat 
which matched her gown, and moved toward the 
door. 

“Mamma," she said, over her shoulder, “don't 
forget to have some wine and biscuits up here. I 
shall be a perfect wreck when I come back. " 

Lady Montjoy, who had repaired, as usual, to the 
library, was too much dispirited to watch the pair 
set out. She was, as her friend had said, quite 
crushed by the failure of her last plan. She had 
pretended that she had given up all thought of the 
Dare alliance; but hope had still lingered in her 
heart. If her son ever married now, she knew that 
it would not be a bride of her choosing; her approval 
would be the very thing which he least desired. 

Mrs. Endon, coming in with her work-bag on her 
arm, found her sitting by the fire in a melancholy 
mood, and set herself to chase the gloom away. 

The whole land was gray that morning. The 
crows flapped their inky wings and vanished as if 
the mist had swallowed them up; the farm-house 
dogs were mute; there was no sound of opening 
gates; no tramp of hoofs along the road. As Alfred 
walked on, with Grace by his side, he recalled the 
aspect of that road in the early summer. How the 
roses had flung their blossoms over those bare thorns ! 


WON. 


205 


How the butterflies had fluttered in the sunshine! 
He thought of Tracy’s dark gray eyes, shining 
steadily under their black lashes, and remembered 
the scent of the bunch of honeysuckle, worn in the 
soft folds of her bodice, and then he stifled a curse, 
and quickened his pace. 

“I’m a dull companion, Grace,” he said abruptly. 
“ And that old house of mine is as gloomy as a 
tomb. By Jove, I’ll do something to enliven it. I’ll 
fill it with people from top to bottom; I’ll give a 
ball, and ask the whole county. ” 

“ It would be delightful to have a ball at Wood- 
court!” Grace was gently enthusiastic in a moment. 
“There hasn’t been one there for more than twenty 
years. A ball on New Year’s night would be lovely. ” 

“We’ll make out a list, 1 ’ said Alfred, trying to 
get up an interest in his project. “And you must 
ask some friends of your own — nice girls, you know.” 

“Lady Montjoy knows plenty of girls,” Grace 
rejoined quietly. “ Mamma talks of going away 
soon; she thinks .of settling somewhere in London. 
We have been wanderers so long, and her only 
brother is there.” 

Her words had the effect that she desired. As 
they walked onward into the mist, it suddenly oc- 
curred to Alfred that Woodcourt, without the Endons, 
would be absolutely intolerable. Even with Grace 
in it the place was detestable enough ; but, if she 
were no longer there, it would be impossible to 
endure the horrible gloom of his abode. Not being 
an affectionate man, he did not hesitate to say to 
himself that his mother was a disagreeable person. 
Lady Montjoy and her son had not been in the habit 
of living together till they came to the Court; and 
they had be®o giving and taking offence ever since 
they had lived under one roof. 

He looked down at Grace in her sealskin jacket and 
beecoming hat. She was a nica^looking, everyday 
woman of the world, with nothing to distinguish her 


20 6 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

from other women of her class. He was not in love 
with her in the least. Love — if it had been love 
which had seized him in its grasp — was a thing that 
gave you no rest, and made you torment yourself and 
every one around you. That was the feeling which 
Tracy had inspired; but (although he hated her for 
not returning it) he knew that she had not tried to 
inspire it. She had not wanted him to love her. 
But for grandma and his own passionate pleadings, 
she would have smiled upon him calmly and gone on 
her way. 

“ You must not dream of leaving us yet,” he said, 
in a very decided voice. “ I won’t hear of it.” 

Grace liked his words none the worse because his 
tone was masterful. 

“ I don’t want to leave Woodcourt. It is the dearest 
old place in the world,” she replied. 

“ I think it’s a beastly place,” said Alfred. “ But 
I’m glad you like it. And if you are contented, it’s 
sheer nonsense to talk about going away. ” 

“I am afraid Lady Montjoy will be tired of us,” 
Grace suggested timidly. 

“She has never shown that she is tired of you, has 
she?” 

“Oh, no; she is always kind. But mamma says 
that we ought not to stay too long.” 

They walked on for some paces in silence. The 
gray veil still hung between them and the landscape, 
but it was a little thinner now. Grace could see the 
lych-gate, and the dark forms of the yews, as they 
went by the churchyard. Then a farmer’s boy came 
whistling along, and crossing a stile, vanished from 
sight as if by magic. She began to feel her heart 
beating violently ; would Alfred never speak again ? 

“Look here, Grace,” he said at last, “I’m pretty 
sure that I should miss -you if you went away. 
You’re., a pleasant woman, and you light up all the 
place. I’m sure you don’t want to hear any senti- 
mental talk from me; I’ve done with sentiment; but 


WON. 


207 


if you’ll marry me, and be mistress of the Court, 
there’s no reason why we shouldn’t get on together.” 

“I think we can get on very well together,” re- 
sponded Grace cheerfully. 

She did not quarrel with this prosaic wooing. Al- 
fred had spoken definitely, without any circumlocu- 
tion, and she was abundantly contented. 

Mrs. Endon, having spent the long morning in 
listening to Lady Montjoy’s grievances, and adminis- 
tering consolation, contrived to slip away from her 
friend at last. Then she betook herself to Grace’s 
room, and watched from the window with a flush of 
anxiety on her faded face. 

At last she' saw them coming toward the house; 
the mist was only a dimness now, and she could dis- 
tinguish their faces. Grace gave a quick upraised 
glance, which spoke volumes to the watcher over- 
head. Mrs. Endon drew a long breath, and moved 
away to a chair by the fire to wait for her daughter’s 
footsteps. They came at length. The door opened, 
and she entered. 

“It is all settled,” she said. “He has asked me 
to be his wife. But oh, mamma, I will never take 
any long walks after I’m married! Look at the 
mud on my skirt ! And I am deadly tired ; but it is 
all right.” 


CHAPPTER XXVIII. 


PEACEFUL HOURS. 

“Glimpses of immortal youth, 

Gleams and glories seen and flown, 

Far-heard voices sweet with truth, 

Airs from viewless Edens blown.” 

— Whittier. 

Tracy, still regarded by all around her as an in- 
valid, revived considerably when she heard of Al- 
fred’s engagement. She was even grateful to Grace 
for accepting him, and prophesied happiness for the 
pair with a confidence which astonished grandma. 

“ There can be no happiness when a man has Al- 
fred’s temper,” Mrs. Taunton said. She could not 
forgive him for being so easily consoled. 

“ Grace is much better suited to him than I was,” 
Tracy answered. “ She will not provoke him as I 
did. Of course my provocation was not intentional ; 
but I used to see that I did not do him any good, 
and I couldn’t mend the matter. Dear grandrna, I 
am rejoiced to know that he has lost the sense of 
loss!” 

“ How do you know that he has?” grandma de- 
manded. “ It is too soon. If he had waited a little 
longer before he reengaged himself it would have 
been more dignified. However, if the news has made 
you happy I am glad. Of course / can see that he 
has merely asked the girl to take him out of pique!” 

Tracy, resting deliciously on the couch in the 
breakfast-room ^closed her eyes with a sense of. peace. 

The rector Came to sit by her sofa, and bring her 
the first number Of a new magazine. The tidings 
208 


PEACEFUL HOURS. 


209 


of Alfred’s engagement had not astonished him in 
the least; but over Miss Endon’s chance of happi- 
ness he shook his head. 

Christmas came and passed tranquilly with the 
little household at the Laurels. Tracy seemed to be 
a child again, enjoying simple pleasures with a 
child’s unalloyed delight. Mrs. Taunton’s kindly 
nature was no longer restrained by her ambition; 
she welcomed little Ben and his mother with all the 
hearty good will of former days, and Jane Shaw’s 
heart was full of thankfulness and peace. 

They never talked about Alfred. His name would 
be no more found in the record of Tracy’s life, and 
those who loved her soon ceased to be interested in 
him. While Tracy was in her room upstairs, Mr. 
Lazelle and grandma had had a serious conversation, 
and if there had been any lingering regret in the old 
lady’s mind it passed away forever. So glad was 
she now that Tracy was free, that she cared nothing 
at all for the gossips of Ferngate. But the gossips, 
after all her fears, had very little to say. There 
were those in the old town who knew Sir Alfred 
Montjoy better than Mrs. Taunton and her grand- 
child had ever known him. Tracy had been less 
envied than grandma had supposed; and there was 
a good deal of quiet joy over her release. 

She was a girl who had made many friends and 
few enemies. The petty tittle-tattle, which flows so 
freely from the lips of most women, was never heard 
from hers. Her fun was devoid of the least flavor of 
malice; she was seldom known to tease any one but 
grandma. Deep down below the bright composure 
of her usual manner there were unsuspected passions, 
smouldering fires, an intensity of love and hate 
which had only blazed out once or twice in her life. 
People sometimes thought that Tracy had no depth 
of feeling; but this was only because the feeling lay 
too deep to be roused easily. 

- One day, when she was walking along the High 

14 


210 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


Street of the quiet old town, some one came suddenly 
out of a shop and advanced to meet her. It was 
Walter Roche, who had been lingering about Fern- 
gate in the hope of seeing her again. 

The morning air was cold and clear, and Tracy 
wore a large fur collar over her gray cloak. Her 
face looked more pure and delicate than ever against 
the dark fur ; but Roche saw that the outline of her 
cheek had gained roundness and her lips had lost 
their sad curve. She was happier now. Her smile 
was spontaneous as she met his eyes. 

“You are looking well,” he said, with his usual 
calm air, but there was a faint flush on his face. 

“Yes, I am well,” she replied; “and grandma is 
very bright. There is something exhilarating in 
January sunshine.” 

“This is a pleasant old town,” he remarked, be- 
ginning to walk by her side. “A nice, clean old 
place, where there is no haste or turmoil. I should 
like to live here.” 

“You would get tired of the pleasantness and 
cleanliness,” she said. “After a little while you 
would pine for haste and turmoil. Ferngate is 
only fit for comfortable old gentlemen and elderly 
spinsters to live in. ” 

“ It would just suit me, ” he persisted. “ I am fully 
determined to be a comfortable old gentleman. I 
don’t expect too much, and there is plenty of rational 
entertainment to be had everywhere. ” 

“I am very happy here myself,” she admitted, 
“ but I think that I used up all the rational entertain- 
ment in Ferngate long ago. My work entertains 
me. The winter days are too short for all that I want 
to do while the light lasts. ” 

“Are you so busy in your studio?” he asked. 
“ Shall you send anything to the Royal Academy?” 

She shook her head gently and smiled. 

“Not yet — perhaps, never,” she answered. “One 
dreams of doing great things, and meanwhile one 


PEACEFUL HOURS. 


2 1 1 


works away at little things. The dreams help on 
the work in a wonderful way.” 

He looked at her again, and was struck with the 
expression of content on her face. When they paused 
at the gate of the Laurels, he hoped that she would 
ask him to come in. But she did not. She was in 
a hurry to get back to grandma and her studio; be- 
sides, Walter Roche reminded her of the Montjoys, 
and all that she wanted to forget. 

“It is too soon yet,” he found himself saying in- 
wardly as he walked away. He hardly knew what 
he had been wishing for and hungering after, until 
he had actually seen her again. 

There were grand doings at the Court, where 
every one was getting ready for the advent of the 
bride. Grace and her mother were in town, making 
their preparations with all speed, for the wedding 
was to take place early in March. Lady Montjoy 
had parted with her future daughter-in-law without 
much effusion, and had coldly promised to be present 
at the ceremony if she felt well enough to stand it. 
Even Mrs. Endon’s patience had given way under 
this strain. She felt that she had a right to expect 
more cordiality from her old friend. As to Grace, 
she was inwardly determined to see as little as pos- 
sible of the dowager. 

“ No one can get on with her, mamma,” she said. 
“All our blandishments are thrown away. Now 
that I am sure of Alfred, I shall give her up entirely. ” 

The bleak days came and went; the snow fell, 
muffling grandma’s garden with a swan’s-down robe; 
and Tracy played at snow-balling with little Ben. 
There were peaceful mornings spent in the studio; 
cheery afternoons, when Mr. Lazelle occupied his 
favorite chair at the tea-table; pleasant evenings, 
when Mrs. Taunton knitted in the lamp-light, and 
her granddaughter read aloud. And then the win- 
ter gave tokens of departure ; little cold-faced flowers 
began to appear here and there, and there were spring 


212 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


scents in the keen morning wind. One day Tracy 
took up the paper, and read the announcement of 
Alfred’s marriage. 

“ I do hope they will be happy,” she said heartily. 
“ Poor Grace — it is a terrible risk. ” 

It was always a custom for Mrs. Taunton to go up 
to town in May, taking Tracy with her to see the 
shows and study the fashions. They stayed at an 
old-fashioned hotel near Charing Cross, where the 
same sober set of people came year after year — 
people who never interfered with each other, nor felt 
any curiosity about each other’s doings. And Tracy, 
who loved London with all her heart, spent a happy 
month in going where she liked, and taking her fill 
of picture-galleries. Once she caught a glimpse of 
Sir Alfred Montjoy and his bride, as they descended 
the steps of the Metropole, and got into a carriage. 
Grace was beautifully dressed, and carried herself 
with a well-bred consciousness of her new dignity. 
Alfred’s face was deeply flushed; the melancholy 
expression, which had lent a charm to his handsome 
features, had deepened into savage gloom. Tracy 
was sorry for them both. 

She met Mr. Roche at Burlington House and else- 
where, and presented him to grandma. The old 
lady was delighted with the tall young man, who 
listened to her remarks with deferential attention. 
She declared, after that meeting, that she had always 
admired those calm, unemotional men, who spoke 
in a level voice, and moved slowly. 

“ It is very odd that we so often come across him,” 
said Tracy. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


A PARTING. 

“But now we parted, never more 
To meet upon that lone sea-shore ; 

We have not met on earth again, 

And scarcely shall ; there doth remain 
A time, a place where we shall meet, 

And have the stars beneath our feet.” 

— Trench. 

Tracy was sitting on a warm slope of shingle, 
looking out with half-closed eyes over a great waste 
of blue r . The heat of a glaring July day was over; 
the long afternoon was gliding into evening; and 
the girl, whose clear, pale skin was freshened by the 
sea-breaths, sat there in restful content. Beside her 
lay her sketch-book, and the tin box containing pen- 
cils and colors. She had been working industriously 
for an hour and more, and this was the time for 
musing in quietness. Nobody wanted her indoors. 
Grandma was at the open window with Laura, whose 
children were playing just outside the house. 

The Dawleys and the Tauntons had taken up their 
abode in a little white villa, remote from the water- 
ing-place, and out of the sound of bands and prome- 
naders; and Tracy spent many hours, in solitude. 
The waves carried her thoughts away to the dim 
horizon line, and then brought them back to her feet, 
laden with hints of a fair future. The old sea-voice, 
murmuring its summer tale, was ever sweet in her 
ears. It was a time for dreamy questions and mys- 
terious replies; a time of listening, and gazing, and 
wondering, while the warm days came and went, 
and nature seemed half asleep. 

213 


214 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


There was a great calm and stillness here. Now 
and then a burst of laughter from the children came 
faintly through the quiet air ; but Tracy, lost in her 
revery, heard nothing but the sea. It was not until 
a footstep crushed the shingle near, that she turned 
round, and found herself face to face with Walter 
Roche. 

“ I hope I have not startled you,” he said, speak- 
ing more rapidly than usual. “ I called on Mrs. 
Taunton, and she told me that I should find you on 
the beach.” 

“We did not expect any callers in this out-of-the- 
way place,” she answered, smiling. “How did you 
know that we were here?” 

“ I have been staying at Ferngate with the Arun- 
dels. They mentioned that you had gone to the sea- 
side; and I wanted change of air. So I came.” 

He sat down beside her on the shingle, and began 
to pick up stones with his long, slender fingers, look- 
ing at her all the time with quiet attention. She 
gazed at the sea a few seconds under the soft shadow 
of her black lashes, and then turned her face toward 
him. 

“You have a fancy for dull places,” she said 
lightly. 

“Do you call this dull?” he asked. “Don’t you 
find that this kind of dulness is infinitely more en- 
livening than society? I am generally supposed to 
be a frivolous society man; I’ve been handing about 
ices and carrying shawls for years, and people have 
been good enough to tell me that I have made myself 
agreeable. But lately, I’ve been out of humor with 
my lot. I don’t want to be dawdling and drifting 
forever.” 

“Then don’t dawdle and drift,” said Tracy, with 
a little smile. “ Do something better.” 

He was conscious that those deep eyes of hers were 
resting upon him with a look of reflection. 

“ That is equivalent to saying ‘begin life anew,’ 


A PARTING. 


215 


isn’t it?” he remarked. “Well, I think that’s the 
only thing to be done. And I must ask some one to 
help me.” 

Even then, Tracy had no suspicion of the truth. 
Her mind was pre-occupied with 

“Duties enough, and little cares;” 

and it merely struck her as passing strange that a 
lazy fellow should take her into his confidence. She 
could understand that he was weary of the life that 
he had been leading. It must be extremely tire- 
some, she thought, to go on living as if you were a 
creature with neither soul nor purpose; and she had 
really liked Walter Roche quite well enough to won- 
der at the aimlessness of his existence. 

“Can’t you take more interest in things?” she 
asked, with a touch of soft kindness in her voice. 
“One’s life is in one’s own hands. There are some 
who. go sauntering over their piece of ground, and 
others who break it up, and sow it with good seed. 
I am afraid this sounds rather like a bit out of a 
sermon.” 

“ I wish I could hear such bits oftener,” he said, 
with a slight quiver in his tone. At that moment 
he felt how full of all tender sympathy and kindly 
thought she was, and longed to secure her perpetual 
companionship. But what was there in him that 
she should respond to his desire? It spoke well for 
him that he blamed no one but himself for his wasted 
years; and that he was more deeply conscious of his 
unworthiness now that he was near her than he had 
been when he was far from her. With all his com- 
posure and worldly training, he was scarcely equal 
to the occasion. He had come here to ask this girl 
to be his wife, and he did not know how to do it. 
The very unconsciousness in her sweet, restful face 
made his task so hard. 

The tide was coming in, washing up higher and 
higher, every wave stealing a little nearer to them 


2l6 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


than the one before. At last one, bolder than the 
rest, crept in between the stones with soft, foamy 
windings, and almost touched the hem of Tracy’s 
gray linen gown. 

“It won’t come any nearer than this,” she said, 
looking down. “ I have sat here day after day, 
listening to the soft hissing that it makes, and watch- 
ing to see how high it would come gliding up. That 
bunch of green weed is the water-mark.” 

She was so happy in her surroundings, so girlishly 
occupied with little things, that he could not speak 
just then as he had meant to speak. It was a pleasure 
to sit here beside her in the warm summer air; but it 
could not last. He wanted to take her hand in his, 
and feel that when they rose up they should walk 
away together through the path of life, even unto 
the shore of a deeper sea. 

Roche was a man who read books and thought 
over them. He was a man who dreamed dreams of 
good, and never put them into shape. His was one 
of those haunted lives which meet us here and there; 
the phantoms which hovered round him were beau- 
tiful ; the visions that he saw sometimes were fairer 
than any of those things that he touched and handled. 
But he had never pursued them ; it had not seemed 
to him that it was possible to realize one’s ideals. 
Yet now, sitting here by Tracy’s side, he began 
seriously to think that there might be something in 
a certain theory of Swedenborg’s. What if the love 
begun on earth was the - endless love-story written 
in the chronicles of eternity? 

Just for a moment Tracy wondered why he was so 
utterly silent. But everything around them was so 
beautiful and calm, even to sublimity, that it seemed 
a pity to break this grand stillness with frivolous 
words. Perhaps this was what he was feeling, she 
thought. Her own heart was full of rest ; there were 
no more doubtings and discontents, but only unspoken 
thanksgivings. Life was good; there were higher 


A PARTING. 


217 


thoughts that would come later on ; but to-day she 
was contented with the whiteness of the snowy cloud 
that hung motionless overhead, and did not seek to 
look above it. 

If these two spirits could ever have blended and 
become one, Tracy would have known what Walter’s 
silence meant. It takes the keenest instinct of a 
woman to interpret the silence of a man. 

She had forgotten all about those loops of pearly 
foam that ran up among the shingle. She was look- 
ing far out across the vast plain of blue, just dimpled 
by the faintest of wind-kisses, when a voice spoke 
very quietly by her side. 

“ Will you help me to begin life anew?” said Wal- 
ter Roche. “ You can’t help me unless you will put 
your hand into mine, and never leave me. I will 
take care of you, Tracy; but you must guide me. 
Will you consent to this?” 

Sh r e looked round at him with eyes that opened 
slowly and sadly; and her cheek lost the freshness 
that the sea-breeze had brought there. There was 
that in her face that chilled and troubled him, and 
yet she had never been so gentle and kind. 

“I am so sorry,” she said softly. “Oh, so very 
sorry. I cannot guide you, Mr. Roche; our paths 
lie apart. Those who walk together must have one 
path, you know.” 

“Can we not have one path?” he asked, catching 
at her regret as if it were a thread of hope. 

“ No; it is not my fault, nor yours, that we cannot. 
There must be even more than walking together. 
It is a mystical path, and it must be traversed by 
twain who are made one in that spiritual oneness 
which cannot be described in words. I am express- 
ing myself in a very poor way,” she added, with a 
sudden clasping of her hands. “ After all, what can 
I say but that I am very sorry?” 

“I am more than sorry,” he said sadly. “You 
give me no hope. How can you tell that we are not 


2 1 8 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


destined for each other — if, indeed, there is such a 
thing as destiny?” 

“How can I tell?” she repeated. And there was 
a peculiar quality in the tone of her voice; it was 
clear and penetrating as the note of a sweet bell. 
“ Don’t you know that one can’t speak of things that 
belong to one’s spirit. It is this inability which is 
the cause of many blunders. Do not ask me to 
mystify you with enigmatical phrases! I hate 
them ; the essence of my meaning escapes when I trj^ 
to imprison it in any form. Let us talk of things 
that can be easily expressed — let me say plainly that 
I like you, and that I want you to think kindly of me 
always.” 

He understood then that he had received his an- 
swer. Sim had no other answer to give him. She 
could not help it, as she had said. 

“I can have only kind thoughts of you,” he said 
quietly. “And now I am going away. It will 
trouble you if I remain here.” 

He rose, and she held out her hand to him with a 
pleading, upward look, which went to his heart. 
There were tears gathering in her eyes. 

“Don’t grieve over this,” he said, kindly. “I 
know and understand. I feel that you do not wish 
to pain me.” 

Tracy shook her head ; she could not speak. Then 
she turned aside that he might not see her tears fall- 
ing, and put up her hand to shield her face. She 
heard his departing footsteps on the shingle, but 
some minutes passed before she ventured to look up 
again. 

He was gone. She was alone once more with the 
great blue sea — that ancient confidante, whose voice 
has helped to soothe millions of troubled hearts. 
The slow advance of evening seemed to deepen the 
intense calm ; the children, tired of play, had gone 
to their mother; and the soft rush and whisper of 
the tide were the only sounds which could be heard. 


A PARTING. 


219 


At last, with a long sigh, she rose, and toiled up 
the beach to the little villa, where grandma was still 
sitting at the open window. Her heart was full of 
regret for the man she had just sent away, but hers 
was not the kind of regret that reverses a decision. 
Sorry as she was, she did not, for an instant, wish to 
call him back. 

And yet, if she could have given him all that he 
had asked for, there would have been happy days 
for them both. Every one spoke well of Walter 
Roche ; every one knew that he was upright and sin- 
cere, and that he could do a kind action quietly, and 
speak a kind word where it was needed. There was 
no reason why she should not have taken him — no 
reason, except that strange, undefinable reason which 
she had tried to express clearly, and had failed. 

Tracy, in her gray linen gown, and little black 
lace hat, came slowly into the sitting-room, facing 
the two women who wished her so well. She 
seemed scarcely to see what was before her for a 
moment ; and then she looked at grandma with anx-. 
ious, speaking eyes. The old lady knew instinc- 
tively what had occurred. She put down her knit- 
ting, and began to straighten her cap ribbons with a 
nervous touch. 

“ He has been proposing to you, Tracy,” she said. 
“He went down the beach to do it. And you have 
refused him!” 

“ O Tracy, you haven’t been so silly as to say 
no?” Laura cried. “ He was so nice. What can you 
be expecting? It will be dreadful to see you grow- 
ing older, year after year, and settling down into an 
old maid.” 

“ That is what you will have to see, Laura, I be- 
lieve,” replied the girl, smiling faintly. “And per- 
haps it won’t really be as dreadful as it seems to 
you now. The prospect does not appall me in the 
least. But — I hate to pain and disappoint you all!” 
she added, with a sudden break in her sweet voice. 


220 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


Laura looked at her with a glance that Was half- 
affectionate and half-pitying. 

“Of course, you can’t help being unlike other 
women,” she said. “ It is no fault of yours.” 

“ If she had been exactly like other women, she 
wouldn’t have had so many lovers to choose from,” 
exclaimed grandma, sharply. “A commonplace 
girl marries because she has only one chance, and 
seizes it without a moment’s hesitation — as you did, 
Laura. But an uncommon girl gets confused by 
the number of her chances; that is Tracy’s case.” 

“ There were others as well as Frank ” Laura 

began, bridling a little. But Mrs. Taunton stopped 
her with decision. 

“ Frank is a very good fellow, my dear ; and he 
suits you perfectly. But if you had not instantly 
accepted his offer, you would probably be Laura 
Taunton at the present hour.” 

Anything in the shape of a skirmish between grand- 
ma and Laura was a bit of amusement which Tracy 
relished keenly. Even at this moment, when she 
was feeling sad and sorry, the two faces before her 
were so well worth studying, that she looked from 
one to the other, and forgot her depression. Grand- 
ma glanced up, saw her involuntary smile, and 
frowned. 

“Remember, Tracy,” she said, with a tightening 
of her lips, “ that I do not hesitate to admit the anx- 
iety I suffer on your account. You say that the 
prospect of your lonely future does not appall you in 
the least. That is true; it does not appall you be- 
cause it is untried. Solitude may seem attractive to 
the young, but it is terrible to the old.” 

“ Then that is a good reason for never leaving you, 
grandma.” Tracy went up and hung over the old 
lad) T , in her childish fashion. “ You will never know 
the terrors of solitude if I am always with you.” 

Mrs. Taunton’s features relaxed perceptibly. She 
was very much moved. 


A PARTING. 


22 1 


“ My dear child, you must not consider me and my 
feelings,” she answered. “Think only of your own 
interests. You are always first in my thoughts. ” 

Tracy kissed her, and went upstairs to her little 
room which overlooked the sea. The day was ended 
now, and the rose and gray of evening veiled the 
ocean and sky. Over all brooded the universal hush 
which had prevailed in the morning and afternoon ; 
nothing moved upon the face of the waters ; not even 
a sea-bird went floating through the quiet air. She 
stood at the window, still as a statue, with a pale 
face, and drooped eyelids; and presently a sweet, 
grave smile touched her lips. 

The memory of a voice had come to her, suddenly 
and softly, in the stillness. It was the voice which 
had spoken to her under the autumn trees at Wood- 
court, uttering words that would never be forgotten. 

“Fear not to tread a lonely path through the 
world,” it said. “ Be more fearful of the companion- 
ship that enchains, than of the solitude that leaves 
you free.” 

She knew quite well that she was misunderstood by 
those two excellent women downstairs. They both 
took the usual matter-of-fact view of marriage; and 
each, in her own fashion, believed that Tracy was 
waiting till some great wave of emotion should 
sweep over her life, and carry her straight into the 
haven of wedlock. They thought that she was wast- 
ing her best hours in waiting for this wave. It was 
better, they reasoned, to marry a man who was likely 
to prove just a rational, respectable protector, than 
some one with whom you were desperately in love. 
Great passions, they said, do not suit with domestic 
and household life ; and they were right. 

But it was not for a great passion that Tracy was 
waiting. She had seen enough of the world (who 
has not?) to know that love’s halo fades when you 
draw too near the head that it encircles. And it 
has passed into a proverb that marriage destroys 


222 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


love. But what kind of love is this which cannot 
survive the closest of all relationships? Certainly 
not that kind which is the union of imperishable 
' souls ; and for that mysterious union Tracy was wait- 
ing, half-consciously, as a woman of her type must 
always wait. 

The gray of the gloaming darkened ; the horizon 
line was lost; and far away to the left appeared a 
light from the coastguard station, which shone out 
like a fiery star. Still she stood, gazing silently 
into the deepening gloom, and listening to those 
inner voices which had never spoken so clearly as 
they spoke to-night. Where had she heard or read 
the lines that filled her with a strange and solemn 
delight? She could not tell ; they came to her like 
the remembrance of some sweet strain which she 
had learnt in childhood, and forgotten for a while. 

“ For thou art 

My fulness, my own thought, my second self, 

And, though a thousand ages roll’d between 
My being and thine, we must together meet, 

As sure as sun and moon, as earth and sea, 

As voices uttered from remotest stars 

That seek each other through the depths of space. ” 

How quickly the time had flown. There was Laura 
calling her at the foot of the stairs, and she ran down 
to join her in the sitting-room. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


FAREWELLS. 

“Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep, 

He hath awakened from the dream of life ; 

’Tis we who, lost in stormy visions, keep 
With phantoms an unprofitable strife.” 

— Shelley. 

Life went on quietly and peacefully in Ferngate 
for another year; and then everybody in the parish 
made a sudden discovery. All at once they perceived 
that the rector had broken down. 

It Was a trying spring, with swift hail-storms and 
cutting east winds. Mrs. Taunton was kept shut up 
in her comfortable old house, and suffered little from 
the fickle weather. But the rector was less fortu- 
nate : he had no devoted grand-daughter to insist, 
with pretty imperiousness, that he should take care 
of himself. Many people were ill ; and he thought 
only of their needs, taking no rest, neglecting his 
meals, forgetting everything that pertained to his 
own comfort. A violent cold seized him, and left 
him a complete wreck. His face was white and 
pinched; he walked with feeble steps, and had a 
hacking cough. The doctor said that he must go 
abroad. 

When the day was fixed for his departure, he 
came to say farewell to his old friends at the Laurels. 
Mrs. Taunton’s voice trembled when she asked about 
his return. There was something in his aspect 
which seemed to make that “ coming back” a doubt- 
ful thing; yet he answered her questions with hjs 
usual placid cheerfulness. But he was, perhaps, a 
223 


224 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


little less composed when Tracy put her small hand 
into his, and looked up at him with tearful eyes. 

“Oh, if there were nd such word as good-by!” 
she said, almost in a whisper. 

“Some day it may fall into disuse,” he replied, 
with his gentle smile. “ But not yet, my child. 
There is a great deal to learn and unlearn first.” 

Grandma did not catch his meaning. She nodded 
her head with rather a resigned expression. 

“Yes, yes; you are quite right, ’’she said. “Tracy 
has a great deal to learn and unlearn. She is over- 
fastidious, and does not estimate good, everyday 
things at their right value. Time will teach her 
wisdom.” 

Mr. Lazelle looked affectionately at his favorite. 
He hoped that time would not change her as it had 
changed some whom he had known. And then, with 
only a few more words, he took his leave of her and 
went away. 

The little world of Ferngate had sustained a great 
loss. People went on living in the same way ; they 
gave their parties and subscribed to their charities 
as usual ; but there was a lack of life in all that was 
done. The rector was gone ; they missed the wise 
head that had planned and guided for them all, and 
the warm heart that had vitalized their undertakings. 
Surely he had borne their griefs and carried their 
sorrows without weariness or complaint. No one 
had ever spoken of him as a great man ; but it is 
doubtful if great men are remembered as long as 
some of their unknown brethren. Their deeds are 
recorded in books, and their monuments stand in 
our public places; but love does not build with mar- 
ble : it erects a shrine in the heart. 

The news of his death came to Tracy in the sum- 
mer-time. Woods and fields and hedges were full of 
perfume and song; the gray tower of the old church 
was bathed in morning sunshine. She stood at her 
window upstairs, looking out through a frame of ivy- 


FAREWELLS. 225 

leaves across the peaceful country, and the pastures 
that went sloping gently up to the hills. 

She had wept many tears ; her sorrow was deeper 
than words could express ; and yet a touch of won- 
derful rest had quieted the outcry of the heart. Never 
before had heaven seemed so near. But what was 
heaven? Was it an atmosphere created by the out- 
flowings of her own loving soul — an atmosphere so 
good and sweet that holy spirits could dwell in it for 
a while, and minister to her? 

Tracy had never thought herself good. She had 
high aspirations, intense longings after the best 
things, a great dread of any fetter that could bind 
her down to a grovelling earthly existence. And she 
had, too, that passionate love of humanity which had 
been the most marked trait in the rector’s character. 
“ He prayeth best who loveth best,” was the motto 
of Mr. Lazelle’s noiseless life, and it lingered in the 
hearts of the people who had known him. 

She heard no aerial voices ; saw no gleam of silver 
pinions, felt no touch of unseen hands. Yet, as she 
stood looking out upon the pleasant summer land, 
she was filled with an intense consciousness of im- 
mortality. Death had come to teach her that there 
was no death. It had changed the vague belief 
implanted by education into a strong and tranquil 
assurance. It had opened the sealed fountain of 
spiritual knowledge, and given her to drink of the 
water of life. 

After the rector’s departure the days glided on ; the 
weeks lengthening out unperceived into months and 
years. And the years were very quiet ; sun-tinted, 
but not glorious with the light of any great joy. 

Sometimes the calm household at the Laurels got 
hints of the life that was lived at Woodcourt. It was 
neither a pleasant nor a wholesome life. Sir Al- 
fred’s temper grew worse and worse; servants were 
always going and coming; Lady Montjoy’s face 
looked worn and pinched and old. The little cot- 
*5 


226 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


tage on the island was neglected nowadays; no 
pleasure parties cared to go there, for Sir Alfred 
hated the spot. Yet the lake was as beautiful as ever, 
its great white lilies rested on the dark water; its 
banks were rich with long wild grasses and flowers ; 
sunbeams and willow-branches came dipping into its 
bosom together. It was a deserted place: Sir Al- 
fred’s avoidance of it had given rise to a rumor that 
it was haunted. Had he drowned somebody there 
in one of his passions? The servants whispered the 
question to each other until they half-believed that 
he had. Certainly, those passions were very ter- 
rible, and Lady Montjoy had no power to calm her 
husband in his wild moods. 

Poor Grace looked back sometimes with a regretful 
glance to her maiden days. Those days had been 
full of petty worries and discontents, it is true ; but 
they had not been darkened by the black shadow of 
fear. Grace was always in fear now; she would 
watch the door with anxious eyes when her husband 
went out, not knowing if he would be sane or mad 
when he returned. Mrs. Endon thought that Alfred 
grew more like the wicked Sir Everard every day. 
She lived with her daughter at Woodcourt, and had 
two beautiful rooms of her own ; but her heart was 
never at peace. 

A little girl had been born to the Montjoys, but 
Sir Alfred did not want a girl, and took but very 
small interest in the child. Nor did he even make 
a pretence of caring for his wife, although he was 
always civil to her when other people were present. 
In his worst moods he had never struck her, but she 
could not be sure that she should always escape this 
last degradation. She knew that Alfred would not 
strike her when he was in his right mind. Brutal- 
ized as he was, the hereditary finer instincts of a 
gentleman lingered about him yet; but the question 
was how long would they linger? Grace could not 


FARlWELLg, 22 7 

tell what was coming next, and was afraid that any 
change would be for the worse. 

She no longer loved her husband. At first she 
had really cared for him as much as she could care 
for any one ; and she had done what she could, ac- 
cording to her lights, to save him from self-destruc- 
tion. But no man can be saved against his will ; 
and Alfred had that dogged determination to take 
his own course which no friendly interference can 
check. His mother had given him up long ago, 
and had gone to share the home of another dowager 
in Kensington. Grace went to see her sometimes, 
taking the child with her; and the two were better 
friends than they had been soon after the marriage. 

“ He would have killed Tracy Taunton if he had 
married her, ” the elder lady would say confidentially. 
“ I always said it would be better for him to marry 
some one he didn’t particularly care for. Alfred 
loved like a savage. I never can understand how 
he comes to be a son of mine!” 

These words might have stung Grace once, but 
now she could hear them unmoved. At rare inter- 
vals she caught a glimpse of Tracy in the High 
Street of the old town, and envied her look of deli- 
cate youthfulness. She divined that Walter Roche 
had proposed, and had been rejected; and she won- 
dered what was the secret of the girl’s mysterious 
power of attraction. She did not detest Tracy as 
Alfred’s mother had done; and once when they met 
in a shop, and Tracy spoke, with her sweet natural 
kindliness, to the child by Grace’s side, Alfred’s wife 
was very near wishing to have her for a friend. 

As to Tracy herself she remembered her brief en- 
gagement to Alfred Montjoy as something which had 
happened in a dream. Six years had glided by since 
the day when she had gone to Woodcourt to steal 
water-lilies. Six years — they had brought her more 
lovers than fall to the lot of most women ; but she 
was heart-whole still. 


228 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


She had prospered in her quiet career as an artist ; 
yet her progress was not as rapid as it would have 
been if she had devoted herself to art alone. Grand- 
ma absorbed a great deal of her time and attention. 
It had not escaped Tracy’s notice that she had grown 
visibly older and more feeble since the rector’s death. 
It was plain that she pined for the old association, 
and missed the friend who had known her when life 
was young. 

“ I have always been an old woman to you, Tracy,” 
she said. “ But Mr. Lazelle knew me before my 
youth had left me. There are only young people 
left now. There is nobody to whom I can say — ‘Do 
you remember?’ The conversation of old men and 
women is made up of memories, my dear.” 

It cost Tracy a pang to feel that she could not go 
back far enough to interest grandma. But day after 
day, with unwearied care and patience, she devoted 
herself to the old woman whom she loved so well. 
Grandma no longer fretted because Tracy was not 
married. She was almost past fretting now, and it 
was so comfortable to be petted and waited upon that 
she wasted no more vain regrets on the grandson she 
ought to have had. Perhaps, she admitted, he might 
not have proved a desirable acquisition after all. 

The Shaws were still living in their cottage on the 
borders of the common; and nothing had ever been 
done to amend the condition of Long Gardens. But 
although her children were healthy and strong, an 
anxiety of another kind had come to Jane and her 
husband. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


THE STORY OF WILMOT LINN. 

“ ’Tis something to a heart like mine 
To think of thee as living yet; 

To feel that such a light as thine 
Could not in utter darkness set. ” 

— Whittier. 

A swift afternoon breeze was blowing into Tracy’s 
face as she took her way to the Shaws’ cottage. It 
was a fine day at the end of December, and the 
charm of the landscape lay in the pale brightness 
that brooded over the lonely fields and quiet hills. 

Tracy, well muffled up in fur, walked quickly 
across the waste land, enjoying the keen air and 
wintry light. From the small head, set with a 
peculiar grace on her shoulders, down to the pretty 
foot that tripped over the grass, she was a little prin- 
cess still. Sweet, gentle, refined, with a steady 
lustre shining always in her dark gray eyes, people 
turned to look at her as she passed them, and remem- 
bered her when she was out of sight. 

Jane Shaw came to her cottage door, and watched 
her approach. She had got up that morning with 
an especial desire to see her young lady ; and had 
been running to the door at intervals all day. As a 
rule, Miss Tracy always came when she was particu- 
larly wanted, and Ben had confidently affirmed that 
his mother would certainly see her before night- 
fall. And Ben was right. Jane drew a deep breath 
of satisfaction as she caught sight of the slim, gray 
figure coming quickly across the common, and held 
out her hands joyfully as it drew near. 

Trade was slack in the sleepy old town of Fern- 
229 


' THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

gate, and there was not enough work to employ 
Jane’s husband nowadays. He was a clever and 
industrious workman, who chafed at inaction and 
longed for a wider scope. His old master was dead ; 
business was decreasing year after year; the boys 
were growing up sturdy and strong, and ready 
enough to be of use. Reuben Shaw was an ener- 
getic man ; he wrote to an uncle of his in London, 
and frankly explained his position. The answer to 
that letter had set Reuben and Jane thinking with all 
their might. Uncle John had been employed for 
years in a large store in the City ; and he and his 
wife had lived, as caretakers, on the premises in Can- 
non Street. The wife had died, and John Shaw 
found his loneliness unendurable. He laid the mat- 
ter before his employers, and suggested that his 
nephew and niece from Ferngate should fill his place. 
Jane Shaw was a capable woman, and would take 
care that all was kept orderly and clean. 

Reuben Shaw was summoned to London by his 
uncle, and had an interview with one of the partners 
in the firm. He came back fully prepared to under- 
take his new duties with a stout heart. They would 
have a roof over their heads, he said ; and there was 
little doubt that as good a workman as himself would 
find employment in the City. Jane was glad of the 
decision ; but it grieved her sorely to leave the old 
home and part with Miss Tracy. 

This was the tale which was poured into Tracy’s 
ears as she sat in Jane’s little parlor. Her heart sank 
as she listened; it would be hard to lose Jane. But 
she was very girlish in some things, and could see 
the bright side of the picture in a moment. 

“It will be splendid,” she said, warmly. “Only 
think how good it will be for the boys to get away 
from a lazy life. There’s too much play, and too 
little work for them here. Leap-frog is a delightful 
recreation, but I wonder that Ben doesn’t find it 
monotonous. ” 


THE STORY OF WILMOT LINN. 23 1 

“ If he doesn’t get tired of it, miss, I do,” responded 
Jane ; “ and if it’s good for his health, it’s bad for his 
trousers. However, there won’t be much leap-frog- 
ging in Cannon Street. I’m afraid the poor little 
soul ’ll miss the country air.” 

Tracy’s heart swelled at the thought of saying 
good-by to Ben — a great boy now. She could not 
forget the days when he had been small and dimpled, 
and had gone to sleep in her arms. Quite suddenly 
she got up to go, laying her hand on Jane’s shoulder 
with a kind touch. 

“ I must get back to grandma,” she said. “ She is 
growing very old, Jane.” 

“Yes, Miss Tracy.” Jane looked into her eyes 
with a sad glance which answered the unspoken 
thought. “ I always hoped I should be with you 
when— when you were in need of help,” she added 
softly. 

There was a moment of silence ; and then Tracy 
went quietly away. 

She walked on quickly until she had crossed the 
common, then slackened her pace a little, enjoying 
the sense of solitude, and the quietness of the gather- 
ing twilight. It saddened her to think that Jane 
would soon be miles away, out of her reach. Fern- 
gate was growing empty and dull, she thought, as 
she drew near the old town, and saw lights springing 
up here and there. 

Standing still for a moment, she looked up at the 
great tower rising against a sky as gray. It was 
peaceful here ; but this was not the sort of peace 
that comes \o one who has fought a good fight. 
Peace, like every other great prize, must be won by 
labor and pain. And how would it be in Ferngate 
if grandma were taken away? With her would de- 
part the motive for remaining in the dreamy old 
town. The reason for tranquillity would exist no 
more. 

But the very thought of losing grandma was an 


232 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

agony so keen, that she could hardly bear it. The 
old lady had been such a dear and loving tyrant, that 
Tracy’s desire for freedom was stifled by her affec- 
tions. An inner voice murmured that it was ex- 
pedient for her that grandma should go away ; but 
she shut her ears, and brushed the tears from her 
eyes. 

The evening had set in quiet and chill. Only the 
faintest breath of wind was roaming fitfully through 
the leafless trees. There was a little whispering in 
the laurels as she passed through the paved court- 
yard and pulled the bell ; fire-light and lamp-light 
glowed cheerfully through the crimson curtains of 
the drawing-room ; Barbara, in her white apron and 
smart cap, opened the door with an unmoved face. 
Nothing had happened in Tracy’s absence; if any 
change were near at hand, it gave no token of its 
approach. 

“And so the Shaws are going to London,” said 
Mrs. Taunton, sipping her tea comfortably by the 
fire. News was so scarce, that Tracy’s little piece 
of intelligence was seized upon with avidity. 

“Yes; they are going very soon,” Tracy replied. 
“ I don’t think I have ever been to Cannon Street, 
grandma; but I know it is not far from St. Paul’s.” 

“Cannon Street!” repeated the old lady, dreamily. 
“ Let me think — yes, St. Monica’s Church is there. 
The Vicar of St. Monica’s owed everything to Mr. 
Lazelle. You remember the story, Tracy?” 

“ What story, grandma?” 

“ Do you mean to say that you have never heard 
it? After knowing Mr. Lazelle so intimately, too!” 

“ I only heard that a Mr. Linn, of St. Monica’s, 
was a great friend of the rector’s,” Tracy answered. 
“ That I have always known.” 

Grandma handed her cup to be filled ; drummed 
upon the table thoughtfully with her mittened fin- 
gers for a second or two; and then, addressing her- 
self to nobody in particular, remarked “ that it was a 


THE STORY OF WILMOT LINN. 


233 


strange thing that young people had no memories.” 
“And yet,” she resumed after a momentary pause, 
“ perhaps it was not such a strange thing after all, 
considering the immense number of trashy novels 
which they read. Tracy’s memory, for example, was 
so clogged and weighted with fiction, that it had 
ceased to act properly. A beautiful story of real 
life, a story which set forth the goodness and noble- 
ness of a dear old friend, was forgotten as soon as 
heard; but an absurd and impossible romance in 
three volumes could be recalled at a minute’s notice. 
It was quite sad.” 

“ It would be quite sad, grandma, if I could forget 
any story which concerned Mr. Lazelle,” said Tracy, 
moved to indignation. “ He was one of the dearest 
friends I ever had! I have often wished that I knew 
more about his early life ; but he hated to talk about 
himself.” 

Mrs. Taunton had made a little sensation, and she 
enjoyed it. And now it suddenly occurred to her 
that Tracy’s memory might not be in fault, after all. 
“He hated to talk about himself,” she repeated. 
“ And he hated other people to talk about him. He 
was as anxious to hide his good deeds as some per- 
sons are to conceal their bad ones. But that was a 
lovely little story.” 

“Let me hear it, grandma,” said Tracy, persua- 
sively. “Wait till Barbara has taken awa}^ the tea- 
tray, and then begin. No one can tell a story better 
than you can.” 

There was truth in this little piece of flattery. 
Grandma really possessed a large share of that gift 
which preserved the life of the princess in the 
“Arabian Nights.” She could not invent, but she 
could remember; and her remembrances were always 
told in fitting words. As a child, Tracy had com- 
plained that grandma could never tell any tales about 
fairies and witches; yet her stories of school, and 
the experiences of her early days, were always worth 


234 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

listening to. She smiled, well pleased with the com- 
pliment, and summoned Barbara. 

The tray was removed, and the door shut. Tracy 
stirred the fire, and brought her work-basket to the 
corner of the table. Mrs. Taunton's hands moved 
slowly in a film of white wool-work, and the gentle 
click of her knitting-pins filled up the pauses. 

“After Mr. Lazelle left Oxford,” she began; “he 
was appointed to the curacy of St. Monica’s, and 
lived in lodgings in an old-fashioned square, not far 
from the church. I don’t think there is much of that 
square remaining now ; the houses are turned into 
warehouses; but in those days Mr. Lazelle lived 
there very comfortably, and was well cared for by 
his landlady. He was not an eloquent preacher; 
he never wrote anything — not even a tract ; no one 
ever spoke of him as a remarkable man ; but it is a 
fact that everybody loved him.” 

Grandma came to a stop, took off her spectacles, 
and carefully wiped them. Then she remarked that 
the lamp was not burning brightly; but Tracy knew 
what it was that made the old lady’s eyes so dim. 

“One dark night in November,” she went on, “he 
had been called out to visit a dying girl, and was 
coming home between ten and eleven o’clock. As he 
was passing the door of old St. Monica’s he fancied 
that he heard a feeble wail. It was raining, and the 
air was chill; but he paused, and listened, and looked 
about him. Huddled up, close to the door of the 
old church, was a shapeless bundle, that stirred a 
little when he went close to it. He stooped and 
lifted it from the damp doorstep, and found that it 
was a little child. ” 

Tracy looked up, with flushed cheeks, and kindling 
interest in her eyes. 

“ Anybody but Mr. Lazelle would have taken it 
to the police station,” grandma continued, with a 
suspicious quaver in her voice. “ But he actually 
had the audacity to carry it straight home to his 


THE STORY OF WILMOT LINN. 235 

landlady. Of course, he knew that Mrs. North was 
a motherly soul, and that she was so devoted to him 
that he might have brought a young dragon into the 
house if he had cared to do so. Still, it was a daring 
thing to bring home a baby. And even Mrs. North 
was less amiable than usual when she found what he 
had done.” 

“ But she was soon appeased, wasn’t she?” Tracy 
asked. 

“Yes; you see Mr. Lazelle had a wonderful way 
of getting people to agree with him. After making 
a little noise, Mrs. North gave in and began to 
take an interest in the poor little thing. It turned 
out to be a boy of eleven or twelve months, dressed 
in good clothes, and quite clean. From his neck 
hung a small cross, studded with rubies, attached to 
a fine gold chain ; and on the back of the cross were 
the initials W. L. The ornament was really of 
value, and at first they believed that somebody would 
come and claim him. Mrs. North was quite sure 
that he must be a nobleman’s son, and was easily 
persuaded to take the greatest care of him.” 

“ And did the noble father really appear?” 

“Never,” replied Mrs. Taunton, emphatically. 
“ But if Mrs. North is still alive, I dare say she is ex- 
pecting him to this day. Inquiries were made in all 
directions, without result. And then Mr. Lazelle 
baptized the baby, and gave him the name of Wil- 
mot Linn ; but why that name was chosen I cannot 
tell. The little fellow grew and flourished, as 
deserted children often do. He was still very young 
when Mr. Lazelle’s sister came home widowed from 
India, and the curate went to live with her in 
Bloomsbury ; but the boy remained with Mrs. North. ” 

“ If Mr. Lazelle had happened to have nephews 
and nieces,” Tracy began. 

“ But he had none. And so, when he decided to 
send Wilmot to school first and to college afterward, 
there were no aggrieved relations to make a fuss. 


236 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


There is very little more to tell ; the lad became a 
clever man, and Mr. Lazelle was amply rewarded. 
It was a romantic thing that Wilmot Linn should 
rise to be vicar of St. Monica’s, was it not?” 

“Yes,” said Tracy, thoughtfully. “It is a very 
pretty story, grandma. I should like to see that Mr. 
Linn.” 

Mrs. Taunton was tired, and lay back in her chair 
in silence. It was a wet night; out-of-doors there 
was a hubbub of wind and rain ; Tracy listened to 
the weird sounds while grandma dozed ; and suddenly 
a great dread of some coming shadow fell upon her 
spirit. She had never felt so utterly alone as she 
did at this moment, sitting by the cheerful fireside. 
What would she not have given to have heard the 
rector’s kindly voice again? 

The rain was still thick against the pane when 
grandma opened her eyes and sat upright, feeling 
refreshed by her short nap. Her gaze rested on 
Tracy’s grave face, and she took up her knitting 
again with a sigh. 

“This is too dull a life for you, child,” she said, 
after a pause. “ I am getting old, and you think that 
I do not notice your fits of depression.” 

Tracy shook off her gravity at once, declaring that 
she preferred her quiet home to the turmoil of 
society. But it was true, she admitted, that grand- 
ma’s story had revived her sorrow for the friend who 
was no longer with them. 

“ We did not realize how well we loved him,” said 
Mrs. Taunton, bending over her knitting. “Ah, 
these friendships ! They are the lamps that light 
up our path ; but they go out one by one. It is only 
the stars that shine on.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


AN EMPTY HOUSE. 

“If e’en when faith had fall’n asleep, 

I heard a voice, ‘Believe no more!’ 

And heard an ever-breaking shore 
That tumbled in the Godless deep ; 

A warmth within the breast would melt 
The freezing reason’s colder part, 

And like a man in wrath the heart 
Stood up and answered, ‘I have felt. 

— In Memoriam. 

All the windows in the old house were set wide 
open, that the sweet air of early summer might wan- 
der in. Outside, one or two heavy wagons went 
creaking along, laden with fragrant hay and decked 
with flowers. Blackbirds were singing in the gar- 
den ; wafts of wind-scattered blossoms strewed the 
floor of the breakfast-room, and a yellow butterfly 
fluttered in and lighted upon the back of grandma’s 
empty chair. 

The door opened, and Tracy, looking very pale 
and fragile in her black gown, came in. Then she 
stood quite still, looking at the old chair, and taking 
note of every indentation on the worn cushions. On 
the little table near stood grandma’s work-basket, 
containing her knitting, and she lifted the lid. The 
dear old hands had stopped in the middle of a row, 
and the work was rolled neatly round the pins. 

The sight of that unfinished row was more than 
the desolate woman, just then, could bear. Nothing, 
perhaps, makes it so hard to believe in the doctrine 
of immortality as these relics of an ended earthly 
*37 


238 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

life. They speak to us mutely of the close of all 
human labor and companionship ; trifles as they are, 
they help to build up that terrible wall of doubt 
against which we hurl ourselves in vain. Sobbing 
there, in her great anguish, she asked herself if life 
were only a play, in which we pretended to have 
souls, and entertained ourselves and each other with 
fine speeches about an eternal meeting-place. 

The birds sang on in the garden; the butterfly 
took sudden flight out of the silent room, and flitted 
away into the sunshine. Tracy, spent with weeping, 
sank down into the chair near the open window, and 
closed her aching eyes. The summer wind smote 
her softly, stirring her hair, and scattering a few 
rosy petals over her black gown. 

There was no voice, nor was there any sign of a 
spiritual presence near ; yet the old faith came back, 
slowly and calmly, to the much-tried heart. Nothing 
was explained ; the silence was as deep as ever ; but, 
just for an instant, Tracy was “taken out of time.” 
The temporal dooms us to suffer because it hides 
the eternal. But sometimes the divine thing within 
us finds a chink in its fleshly prison, and sees the 
light. 

She could even bear the sight of the knitting when 
she got up again. It was just a type of that poor 
earthly labor which may, without pain, be left 
unfinished, because the worker has done all which is 
required of him. Done it badly, perhaps, with 
dropped stitches now and then, but still accomplish- 
ing a fragment of the perfect pattern that was in his 
mind. 

A sudden impulse moved Tracy to sit down once 
more in the sweet air and sunshine, and finish that 
uncompleted row. She worked at it diligently and 
calmly till it was done, and then reflected that it 
was in that fashion that a great deal of the most im- 
portant work in this world is performed. The lover 
of humanity designs a scheme for the good of his 


AN EMPTY HOUSE. 


339 


fellows, and dies before it is half carried out. The 
thinker has a great thought, and expires when it is 
but half expressed. All earth-life is only a continua- 
tion ; a new pair of hands is always found to take 
up what the old pair has laid down. 

, Is it not well that the dead always leave us some- 
thing to finish for them? Just at first, perhaps, we 
may not be able to find that unfinished work which 
they have left for our hands. But we shall find it, 
sooner or later; and in carrying on their labor we 
shall find our peace. 

“ Why are you looking so eagerly for the postman, 
Tracy ?” asked Laura, as they sat together two days 
afterward. 

“ I am so sick of the sight of condolences that I 
hope he won’t bring any more.” 

She wiped her eyes as she spoke. Laura’s heart 
was kind ; but in times of sickness or sorrow she was 
of very little use. Her nerves always gave way 
under the slightest strain. She was longing to get 
out of this silent house, and back to her own cheerful 
cottage where her husband was left in charge. 

“ I am expecting a letter from Jane Shaw,” Tracy 
answered. “ I asked her to do something for me. ” 

“Jane Shaw? Oh, yes; I remember that she went 
to live in London. But what can she do for you, 
Tracy?” 

“ She can look about for suitable lodgings. No 
one understands my requirements better than Jane.” 

“There is no need to look for lodgings yet,” said 
Laura. “You are coming to stay with us for the 
summer. It would kill you to hurry up to London 
before you have had some rest.” 

“ But I want to feel that there is a place waiting for 
me up there. And it must be an inexpensive place, 
Laura. You know that I am poor.” 

“ It is a pity that dear grandma did not leave 
more money,” said Mrs. Dawley, with a sigh. “ And 
we are very badly provided with relations ; no one 


240 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


connected with us is worth a sou. Frank has a rich 
uncle, and two well-to-do aunts ; but they evidently 
mean to go on living.” 

“O Laura,” said Tracy, with a melancholy little 
laugh; “don’t you want them to go on living?” 

“Yes, dear, of course I do; and I should wish it 
still more if they would give us two hundred a year. 
It is a pity that people should not do a kindness 
till after they are dead.” 

The expected letter arrived that day. Jane Shaw 
was comfortably settled in her new home ; and her 
husband and the boys were doing well. The head 
clerk, who occupied rooms in the upper part of the 
premises, was to be married in the autumn, and his 
quarters would be vacant. Jane suggested that Miss 
Tracy might be accommodated there till a better 
place was found. She would then be able to wait 
upon her dear young lady as she had done in days 
gone by, and perhaps it would seem like a home. 

Laura declared that it would not seem in the least 
like a home. None but clerks and caretakers ever 
lived in the City ; and they mostly died for lack of air. 
Her profound knowledge of the City and its ways 
undoubtedly made her opinion valuable, said Tracy. 

The farewell day at the Laurels came at last. 
Laura had no good-byes to say; and Tracy went 
through the old house alone. 

She lingered longest in her studio, stripped now 
of the best of its decorations. All her pictures, and 
one or two small articles of furniture, had been 
packed up, and sent to Jane Shaw, in London; there 
was a vacant space on the wall where the engraving 
of the dying knight had been. Memories of sum- 
mers flown came back as she stood at the ivy-framed 
window; dreams of old dreams, thoughts of old 
thoughts, were thronging into her mind. We have 
all known such leave-takings; and although we have, 
perhaps, learned to take life as we find it, there is 
an inexpressible anguish in these parting hours. 


AN EMPTY HOUSE. 


241 


It was well for Tracy that she dared not linger 
long. Laura was waiting impatiently downstairs, 
anxious to get back to her husband and children, 
and afraid of losing her train. Mrs. Dawley and 
her sister did not quarrel nowadays; but if ever two 
grown-up people, so differently organized as these, 
are thrown into intimate relations, it follows, from 
the very laws of their existence, that one must 
pain the other. 

They were off at last. Tracy looked from the car? 
riage window upon the shifting landscape, but noticed 
nothing; all seemed a blank. She was thoroughly 
weary when they arrived at Laura’s country home; 
and Frank came out to welcome her with his two 
daughters. The girls were affectionate and kind; 
but they wondered that Aunt Tracy was so utterly 
broken down. In them grandma had never inspired 
a deep affection. She had simply appeared to them 
as an imperious old lady with a genius for setting 
other people down. 

The summer passed in a quietness, which was only 
external, so far as Tracy was concerned. She drank 
in new strength with the pure air, and took daily ram- 
bles with her nieces. Marian and Kate delighted in 
this new companionship, and were never tired of 
watching Tracy, as she bent over her painting, or of 
listening while she talked with her old quaint play- 
fulness. They did not know that she was restless 
at heart. Her manner was always full of pleasant- 
ness and peace. 

The sultry days came to a close; the woods turned 
russet and red; the swallows took their departure. 
Tracy packed her boxes, and said good-by to her 
relations with kisses and tears. 

“Don’t forget us all in the turmoil of London,” 
said Mrs. Dawley, wiping her eyes. “And oh, 
Tracy, be sure that your stockings are darned, and 
your buttons securely sewn on!” 

16 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


ALL SAINTS. 

“ One feast, of holy days the crest, 

I, though no churchman, love to keep, 

All Saints, — the unknown good that rest 
In God’s still memory folded deep ; 

The bravely dumb that did their deed, 

And scorned to blot it with a name, 

Men of the plain heroic breed, 

That loved Heaven’s silence more than fame.” 

— Lowell. 

Tracy woke up one morning with a bewildering 
consciousness that she was in an unfamiliar room, 
and that she had, somehow, got into a new world. 
The light of a London day was stealing in through 
her window; but, although it was the first of No- 
vember, there was no fog. She drew up the blind, 
and looked across Cannon Street to the great rail- 
way station, teeming with busy life. Above all 
was a peaceful autumn sky, with white clouds float- 
ing as tranquilly in the blue as if they sailed over 
dewy pastures instead of this tumultuous city. 
Was it the whiteness of these clouds that made her 
think suddenly of the vision of those who were 
clothed in white robes, and had palms in their 
hands? Perhaps it was; for then she remembered 
all at once that this was All Saints’ day. 

She had arrived in town on the preceding evening, 
as weary and worn as a traveller could be. Jane 
Shaw had given her a quiet welcome, ministered 
to her needs, and led her to her room. Thinking 
that she should certainly lie awake all night she fell 
242 


ALL SAINTS. 


243 


asleep unawares, and slumbered soundly till morn- 
ing. 

That peaceful night restored her strength, and 
gave her fresh courage to face her new life. The 
first thing to be done was to examine her rooms, 
which were both on the same floor, high up, and 
nearly at the top of the large premises occupied 
by Messrs. Goodman & Steele. 

This great house of business was situated at the 
corner of Budge Lane, and customers and messen- 
gers were rushing in and out of its doors all day. 
But while there was an endless bustle going on be- 
low, an unbroken calm reigned above. The traffic 
of London thundered and roared round the basement; 
but the light flowed in peacefully through Tracy’s 
windows, and in her airy room there was an atmos- 
phere of cheerfulness and repose. Jane had ar- 
ranged all her young lady’s belongings with care 
and skill, and had added the few simple articles of 
furniture that were required. A certain instinct 
had taught her just where to place the engraving of 
the knight. He had always been Miss Tracy’s 
friend in her childish days: Jane remembered the 
little figure with dark hair flowing, and slender 
hands clasped, pacing slowly in front of that picture. 
And she knew that the woman would come and look 
at it with the grave deep eyes of the dreamy child. 

There are rooms in which we feel instinctively 
that we shall not tarry long. They are mere halt- 
ing-places on the life-journey; spots that we do not 
care to revisit, and we take leave of them without 
one regretful thought. But there are other rooms 
which welcome us with mute familiarity. We know 
not why the atmosphere in them is pleasant to us, 
but we have a strange fancy that some" dear spirit 
has been here before, and has prepared the place 
for us; and, feeling this, we do not want to go away. 

- It was this sense of dearness which came to Tracy 
when she stood for the first time in her new sitting- 


244 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


room. The two windows overlooking the street 
were set open, and the morning light shone softly 
on the pictures and books that she loved. As she 
stood here, in a bright loneliness, the clouds seemed 
to roll away from her life, and leave the path clear 
and plain. She had done well to come to this place. 
It was the right place to live in, and work in ; aye, 
and to suffer in when the day of sorrow came again. 
A trouble is always harder to bear if it comes to us 
in an uncongenial spot; and a joy is all the sweeter 
if it finds us in some haven where we love to be. 

After breakfast, and a little talk with J ane, Tracy 
went forth into the noisy world out-of-doors. Rested 
and refreshed as she was, her nerves were strong 
enough to bear this turmoil ; she mingled with the 
ever-rushing tide of humanity, and felt neither be- 
wilderment nor weariness. Presently the sound of 
a bell came chiming above the din, and she looked 
up to find herself close to the door of St. Monica’s. 

Suddenly, as in a flash, she remembered* the ro- 
mantic story of Wilmot Linn. It was here, on 
these timeworn steps, that Mr. Lazelle had found 
the deserted child. She pushed the door open softly 
and went in. 

Into the dim interior of this old city church the 
autumn sunbeams brought only a misty light. Here 
and there the gilding caught a gleam and shone out 
of the shadows, and the rich windows burned with a 
sombre glow. Lights, like clusters of stars, were 
set in the sembdarkness, only half -revealing the si- 
lent crowd that filled the place. The bell ceased ; 
the mellow notes of the organ pealed forth solemnly 
and sweetly, and the choristers filed in. Tracy 
thought of grandma and the rector as she knelt down 
with the rest. 

Afterward, when the preacher went up into the 
old carven pulpit, she knew by instinct that this was 
Wilmot Linn — knew it, although she had never 
heard any description of the man who stood there, 


ALL SAINTS. 245 

tall and calm, glancing down for an instant at the 
sea of upturned faces below. 

At first that calmness of his seemed to Tracy to 
be almost akin to coldness. The light was dim; 
but as she looked up at the pale, proud face, she 
thought regretfully of the fatherly aspect of the 
good old rector at hoirie. He was an ascetic, this 
Wilmot Linn; he lived an austere life, and would 
be too prone, she fancied, to condemn those who 
could not follow him along the thorny way. He 
was going to preach to them about All Saints; and 
his notion of a saint would be sure to deter any one 
from wishing to become one. Yet, half-reluctantly, 
she prepared herself to listen with close attention. 

And it was not difficult to listen with the rest as 
he went on. It was of the two great festivals, cele- 
brated that week in all Christendom, that he was 
speaking — the festivals of All Souls and All Saints. 
He reminded them that about the middle of the 
ninth century Gregory IV. appointed the first of 
November as the feast of All Saints, a day of sacred 
remembrance of all the saints of every time, of 
every land, of every creed ; a day on which the war 
of theology should cease, and the bitterness of con- 
troversy subside — a very truce of God. But the 
feast of All Souls was founded in the eleventh cen- 
tury as a day to commemorate all the departed — not 
the wise and great only, not the holy and happy 
only, but all who are removed from this visible 
sphere of life. All Saints is the day of church 
brotherhood; but All Souls is the day of human 
brotherhood. 

“ No true estimate of human life is possible, if we 
lose touch of the sublime truth,” said Wilmot Linn, 
with a thrill of passion trembling through his 
sweet voice. “ May we ever be spared the cruel and 
partial judgments of men who would seek to be 
wiser than God! When we look at the world from 
any other standpoint, we are tempted to despise and 


246 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

undervalue it. The Pharisee is thankful that he is 
not as other men are; the reformer is impatient 
with the slow march of human progress ; everything 
discourages us except the Word of God and the 
Gospel of Christ. Only those have the true sight 
who can look through the masks and disguises of 
human lives, and behold the invisible souls within. 
Some preachers have told me that I should preach 
as a dying man to dying men. But I prefer to 
preach as a living man to living men, united by 
Christ to an ever-living God, seeking God through 
the yearning of the soul’s eternal need. 

“ ‘One prayer soars cleansed with martyr fire, 

One choked with sinner’s tears, 

In heaven both meet in one desire, 

And God one music hears. ’ 

“ If we feel truly that all souls are His, we can 
go on working for each other, suffering for each 
other, and not be discouraged by ingratitude or un- 
requital. It is this which sanctifies the labors of all 
our physicians and philanthropists. They approach 
humanity with the profound belief that beneath 
the stains of hereditary disease and sin, there are 
the lineaments of the Divine.” 

There was an instant’s pause, and then the sweet 
voice rose again in a strain of intense tenderness. 
Tracy quivered, and tears gathered in her eyes. 

“ Let us remember to-day the nameless souls who 
have done their Master’s bidding noiselessly here 
on earth. We reap a rich harvest sown by unknown 
hands ; we revel in the sweetness of a freedom 
which great hearts broke for, and won for us. All 
around us, working in this present world, there are 
quiet men and women opening up new pathways for 
their fellow-men to tread. They lived not in the 
past alone; at this very hour they are gliding 
through the crowds in our busy streets outside that 
door. We pass them daily, knowing nothing of 
those errands of mercy on which they are bound. 


ALL SATNTS. 


247 


Like the dew and the sunshine they work in silence, 
leaving sweet traces to show where they have been. 
They ask for no reward; there will be no monument 
left behind them ; they are content if they can leave 
the world a little better than they found it. Let us 
think of these unknown saints ‘whom having not 
seen we love.’ Let us seek their spiritual com- 
panionship; let us learn of Him with whom they 
hold communion, that we, with them, may be 
partakers of His heavenly kingdom. It is such 
saints as these who do His will on earth even as it 
is done in heaven.” 

Tracy no longer complained to herself of the cold- 
ness of Wilmot Linn. She knew him better now, 
and understood the influence which penetrated her 
heart and the hearts of all these people who had 
turned .aside from their business to listen to his 
words. She went out of the church into the sun- 
shine with a longing to join the brotherhood of si- 
lent workers. Was it for this that the course of her 
life had been changed, and the hands, lately fet- 
tered, set free? 

She returned to her room to finish the business 
of unpacking; and the rest of the day was spent in 
setting things in order. Yet she found time to ask 
Jane Shaw a few questions. 

“Yes, miss; Mr. Linn is everybody’s friend,” 
Jane answered. “ He’s got some of the ways of our 
old rector, as you’ll find when you know him. But 
he works harder than the rector ever did, and he 
don’t spare himself in the least. Before he came 
to St. Monica’s, folks said that it might as well have 
been shut up ; it was that ridiculously empty, miss, 
that it was a waste of prayers and sermons to have 
them there!” 

Tracy laughed. But Jane did not mind being 
laughed at. 

.. “ They say that he wanted to do something for 
the parish where he was picked up,” she continued. 


248 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“ But he’s not one of those who only care for one 
sort of good, and he isn’t satisfied with just filling 
the empty church. Years and years ago, miss, in 
those History of England days that you used to tell 
me about, there was a school for desolate children, 
attached, as they call it, to St. Monica’s. There’s 
a little of it left now, but, when Mr. Linn came, it 
was just a-dwindling and a-fading away. And he’s 
a-trying to build it up, and make it a bigger thing 
than it ever was before. Why, miss, those who live 
with him in that gloomy house behind the church, 
are just as friendless as he was! He’s got the no- 
tion, you see, that as his life was saved and pre- 
served in such a remarkable manner, he ought to 
spend it for others. That’s how it is with him.” 

Jane’s words always flowed fast in her rare mo- 
ments of excitement ; and, in such moments, she al- 
ways reverted to the rustic mode of expressing her- 
self. Tracy liked to see her cheeks flush, and to 
hear her say “ a-dwindling and a-fading.” 

Two days came and went, and the rooms were in 
such perfect order that it seemed to Jane as if Miss 
Tracy had been living in them for years. It is true 
that Tracy’s “ order” meant a certain kind of artistic 
“disorder;” things were not in pairs and sets; col- 
ors were varied, although they never clashed ; fan- 
cies found expression in unexpected bits of drapery. 
She worked vigorously, securing the brief morning 
light, and throwing all her heart into her labor. 

On Saturday afternoon she went up the slope of 
the busy street, and paused beside the door of the 
old church. A woman was selling violets there; 
she bought a little bunch, and stood listening to the 
sound of the organ, half inclined to go in. 

Suddenly, with a quick movement, the church door 
was pushed open, and a young woman came out, 
canying a music-book under her arm. She was so 
short that Tracy could hardly decide for a moment 
whether she were a woman or an old-looking child. 


ALL SAINTS. 


249 


A second glance made it evident that she was a per- 
son of four or five-and-twenty, painfully deformed, 
and wearing a long cloak to hide the defect. When 
Tracy, with ready and instinctive courtesy, stepped 
aside to let her pass, she was rewarded with a look 
of such intense malignity that she almost started. 

The girl’s face was startlingly red and white — so 
red and white that she had the complexion of a doll, 
rather than of a human being. The mouth was 
coarse; the eyes, pale gray, gleamed under yellow 
fringes; and the hair was of that glittering red-gold 
which some artists love to paint. It was abundant, 
and lay in thick coils under the shabby black hat 
which she wore. A feeling, half of pity, half of 
aversion, took possession of Tracy, as the stunted 
figure swept past her, and disappeared in the nar- 
row passage beside the church. 

“ I feel as if I had seen a bad fairy,” she thought, 
holding her violets up to her face. “ There is some- 
thing uncanny-looking about that poor creature.” 

The organ music burst forth again, full and sweet. 
The “ bad fairy” had vanished ; Tracy went in, and 
sat down in the gathering shadows to listen. The 
strain was tender and quiet in the beginning; then 
a little sad; finally it rose into a triumphant melody 
that buoyed up the heart. She shut her eyes, and 
did not open them again till the last notes had died 
away. 

When she rose from her dark corner the player 
had closed the organ, and was coming down the aisle. 
They met at the door, and she saw that he was a 
young man, tall and slender, with a beautiful Greek 
face, very pure in outline, and large blue eyes, as 
clear and candid as a child’s. It was a face that 
gave one the idea of a gentle, impressible nature ; a 
little weak and womanish, perhaps, but full of happy 
promises; sensitive, refined, and bright with that 
radiance which comes to those who are free to use a 
great gift. This was Pascoe Rayne, a lad whom 


250 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


Wilmot Linn had taken out of poverty and obscurity, 
and trained to fill the post of organist at St. Monica’s. 

He opened the door for Tracy to pass out, and 
returned her glance with a look so gentle and mod- 
est that she was encouraged to speak. “ Your beau- 
tiful music has refreshed me,” she said as she passed 
him. “I thank you.” 

His face brightened visibly at the kind words. 
For a moment he paused on the old steps, and stood 
looking eagerly after her graceful figure till it van- 
ished in the crowd, 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


BITTER AND SWEET. 

“Never happy any more ! 

Is it not but a sorry lore 

That says, ‘Take strength, the worst is o’er’ ? ” 

— D. G. Rossetti. 

Pascoe Rayne did not return at once to the clergy 
house; he crossed the street, turned down Dowgate 
Hill, and, entering a dark doorway, went up a still 
darker staircase. Then he knocked at a closed door, 
and was answered by a shrill voice, telling him to 
come in. 

In a dull little room, containing a piano, a table, 
two chairs, and a very small bed, sat the deformed 
girl who had attracted Tracy’s attention. She was 
sitting at the table, near the window, apparently 
gazing out into the twilight; but at the young man’s 
entrance she rose, and lighted a gas-burner, looking 
at him with a swift, inquisitive glance. 

“Here is the anthem you wanted, Marget,’’ he 
said, handing her a roll of music. 

“Ah, I left it behind this afternoon,” she an- 
swered. “ Pascoe, did you see that stranger — a 
lady — coming into the church? People are intrusive. ” 

“ I saw her as I came out,” he replied. “ She had 
been listening while I played. There was no in- 
trusiveness, Marget: the church is open to all.” 

“ But we have too many people coming and going 
about us,” said the girl irritably. She took a pencil 
from the table, .and twisted it rapidly in her thin 
fingers ; and he could hear her beating one foot upon 
the floor. 

251 


252 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

“ What harm do they do?” he asked. “ How you 
excite yourself about trifles!” 

“ These are no trifles. ” The pencil was twisted 
faster. “ Little things are the beginning of great 
things. I know who that woman is.” 

“ How do you know her, Marget?” Pascoe spoke 
with newly awakened interest. 

“Ben Shaw has been talking to the other boys 
about his mother’s young lady — a Miss Taunton. 
She has come to live here. What an absurd place 
for a lady to live in ! And she was the friend of 
Mr. Lazelle. Of course she will think that she has 
a right to be running in and out of our church, and 
always interfering.” 

“She won’t interfere,” said Pascoe, with an air of 
conviction ; “ but I hope she’ll come very often. She 
spoke to me this afternoon, and she has the sweet- 
est voice I ever heard in my life.” 

Marget began to pace up and down her small 
room, gesticulating violently, and Pascoe watched 
her with a look of deep pain in his clear blue eyes. 
She was his only sister, this poor passionate creat- 
ure, who was so sadly grotesque in her angry mo- 
ments ; and it had always been impossible for her to 
realize the mournful fact that her deformity set her 
apart from happier women. She rejected vehemently 
the least suggestion that she was one whit behind 
the most perfectly formed of her sex. And as she 
walked to and fro, her red-gold hair glittering in 
the gaslight, and a flush of bright carmine burning 
on her white cheeks, it seemed almost cruel of na- 
ture to have decked with such gaudy coloring a 
being so misshapen. 

“ You are so stupid, Pascoe, that every one pleases 
you, ” she said viciously. “ I suppose she paid you a 
compliment, and that was enough to make you 
think her lovely. But she isn’t '•lovely at all — a 
poor colorless thing: no man would look at her 
twice. ” 


BITTER AND SWEET. 


253 


“Do sit down, Marget,” her* brother entreated. 
“ It is quite dreadful to see you working yourself 
into a passion. And you are altogether wrong,’' he 
continued, with some heat. “ Any one would want 
to look twice at the lady in black. I am not 
such a fool as you imagine. Of course, I can’t tell 
if she is really the Miss Taunton that Ben talked 
about, but ” 

“ It is quite decided that I hate her, no matter 
what her name is,” interrupted Marget furiously. 
“I tell you, Pascoe, that you are an idiot: one smile 
enchants you. Has she got such a complexion as 
mine? Do you think I would change my hair for 
hers, which is as black and curly as a negro’s? 
Why, the vicar himself said one morning to Mrs. 
Deale — ‘Marget looks as fresh as arose.’ As fresh 
as a rose , those were his very words. Did a man 
ever make a prettier speech about a woman? Would 
any man have said such a thing if he had not ad- 
mired a woman?” 

“Oh, Marget!” poor Pascoe almost groaned. 

“ I dare say you are surprised. ” She laughed and 
tossed her head and its golden crown with the air of 
an acknowledged beauty. “ Brothers never can ap- 
preciate their sisters. But he did say so. ” 

“ Yes, Marget, but he said so because he was glad 
to see that you had become so well and strong. The 
words don’t imply admiration. You had been ill, 
and you had recovered your fresh looks.” 

She moved impatiently. “ Pascoe, you won’t see, 
and you won’t understand,” she said, still stubbornly 
insisting on her right to be admired. “ But you 
can’t deny he has often praised my playing.” 

“ I don’t wish to deny that, Marget. You do play 
very well, dear; and the vicar takes pleasure in 
your progress. I am proud of my pupil,” he added 
kindly. 

“You are a good fellow, Pascoe. You have 
taken great pains with me. I have not your genius, 


254 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


I know ; but I am a very persevering girl, and I mean 
to get on.” 

“You will get on, ” Pascoe answered. “Devote 
yourself to music; give your whole heart to it; 
think of nothing else. ” 

He stooped and kissed her tenderly, and then went 
down the narrow stairs and into the lighted street. 

He was still a very young man, younger than 
Marget, and tears stood in his eyes as he thought of 
his poor little sister. How could he ever be angry 
with her — even for a moment? he asked himself, with 
bitter self-reproach. She was not as other girls, to 
whom God had given perfect symmetry of form. 
Was it not possible that a vague consciousness of 
deformity was concealed deep down under fierce pre- 
tensions to admiration? 

Marget and Pascoe Rayne were the son and daugh- 
ter of a small shopkeeper who had failed in business, 
and had come to be a caretaker in some premises near 
the Mansion House. Wilmot Linn had found out 
that Pascoe possessed great musical talent, and had 
spared no pains to cultivate the gift. Having ob- 
tained a good appointment for his own organist, he 
gave the vacant post to Pascoe; and the young fel- 
low repaid him with a devotion which never wav- 
ered. When poor old Rayne, feeble and heart- 
broken, went quietly to rest, Pascoe was able to help 
his sister; and the two were numbered among the 
children of St. Monica’s. 

It was of all Mr. Linn’s unselfish kindness that 
Pascoe was thinking as he went up the flagged path 
to the clergy-house. Now, for the first time, it had 
struck him that poor Marget, with her intense 
vanity and jealousy, was likely, perhaps, to be a 
trouble to the good friend who had helped them in 
their poverty. Any living creature who was down- 
trodden or afflicted was sure of winning sympathy 
and tenderness from Wilmot Linn. 

Mr. Linn had the rich nature which gives liber- 


BITTER AND SWEET. 


255 


ally, filling- empty cups with the sweet, strong wine 
of its own charity. But what if, at the bottom of a 
certain cup, there happened to be a single drop of 
poison which would mingle with the reviving 
draught? 

As this thought flashed into Pascoe’s mind he 
shuddered with a new and strange apprehension. 
His hand trembled slightly as he opened the. inner 
door. But Mrs. Deale’s rosy face looked cheerfully 
out of her warm little sanctum on the left side of 
the entry, and greeted him with a smile. 

“ Oh, that’s you, Mr. Rayne,” she said. “ It’s ten 
minutes past five, and the vicar hasn’t come in to tea. 
Walker’s boy has been asking for him again; but 
Mr. Abbott was here, and he went to Walker.” 

“That is as it should be,” remarked Pascoe, hang- 
ing up his hat. “ It is not fair to let the vicar always 
go there; and Walker isn’t as ill as he thinks him- 
self; the doctor told me that he would be up again 
before Christmas.” 

“I never did think much of Walker,” said the 
housekeeper confidentially; “but Mr. Fordyce is 
that absent-minded that he’ll empty the tea-pot, 
if you don’t make haste and take your share, Mr. 
Rayne. ” 

Fordyce, the junior curate, was justifying Mrs. 
Deale’s suspicion at that moment. He sat at the 
table with an open book beside his cup, and had 
mechanically stretched out a long arm toward the 
tea-pot, when Pascoe whisked it away. The bony 
fingers grasped at nothing, and Fordyce looked up 
through his spectacles in mild surprise. 

“It’s a bad habit, reading at meal-times,” said 
Pascoe, laughing. “ Don’t you see that it leads to 
greediness? I believe you have had as much tea 
as is good for you.” 

“ I dare say I have,” admitted Fordyce meekly. 
“ I wonder how many times I’ve filled my cup since 
Abbott went out? He would have checked me if he 


25 6 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


had been here. And the fire is getting low, I de- 
clare!” 

He got up to put on more coal, insisting that 
Pascoe should sit down to the table at once. Young 
Rayne sank into his usual seat with a sense of weari- 
ness; the scene with Marget had exhausted him; he 
was not strong, and he felt grateful for the warmth 
and comfort and peace which he always found 
awaiting him here. 

The curate’s room, which was opposite to Mrs. 
Deale’s little parlor, was provided with an inviting 
sofa as well as three easy-chairs, and was as cosy a 
retreat on a winter evening as the heart of man could 
desire. The walls were lined with well-filled book- 
shelves ; the firelight and gaslight shone on one or 
two charming engravings; the tea-service was gay 
and bright. In one corner was a piano, on which 
Pascoe often played to his two friends in their mo- 
ments of leisure. The young fellow was a favorite 
with them both ; they sympathized with the passion- 
ate love of music which dominated his whole life; 
they were attracted by his sweet nature, and the per- 
sonal beauty which made him remarkable. Pascoe’s 
childhood had been troubled and sad. He had been 
the despair of his father, who could see nothing but 
starvation for the dreamy, delicate boy. But now 
all his hopes were realized ; Wilmot Linn had come 
like a good angel to lift him out of the mire and 
clay of life, and crown his heart’s desire. 

It was twenty-five minutes past five when Mrs. 
Deale, always fussy and anxious about her master, 
heard the vicar’s step at last. He went up the dark 
staircase to his study, and she followed with his tea- 
tray. 

He had thrown himself into a chair by the fire, 
and was gazing intently at the blazing coals. It 
struck the housekeeper, who had fallen into the habit 
of studying him, that his thoughts had wandered off 


BITTER AND SWEET. 257 

on a long excursion into dreamland, and could only 
be recalled by a strong effort of will. 

“Mr. Abbott has gone to see Walker, sir,” she 
said; “ and Jones called to say that he would be here 
at a quarter to six — not at six, as was first arranged.” 

“Jones?” repeated the vicar slowly; “I thought 
he was not coming till Friday?” 

“To-day is Friday, sir,” said Mrs. Deale, with 
gentle decision. 

There was an instant’s pause. Mr. Linn’s face 
had not changed in the least, and yet the housekeeper 
knew that his mistake had slightly ruffled him. But 
he only said, “ Show Jones up as soon as he comes,” 
and turned to his tea. 

The good woman retired, shutting the door quietly 
behind her. And then Wilmot Linn rose suddenly, 
went to the piano, and played a few bars of a Scotch 
song. Returning to his seat at the table, he pushed 
back his dark hair with an impatient gesture, and 
began to read the letters which had come while he 
was out. Presently the door opened again, and 
Pascoe looked in. At the sight of the lad’s beautiful 
face the vicar smiled. 

“Are you tired?” the young man asked gently, 
“You came in late this afternoon, and it has been a 
chilly day. ” 

“ I have not felt the cold,” Wilmot answered. “ No, 
Pascoe, I am not tired; but when a man has been 
talking over by-gone days, he is apt to feel himself 
growing old. I have been speaking of the past and 
of Mr. Lazelle. He knew Miss Taunton from her 
childhood.” 

“Then you have seen Miss Taunton?” said Pascoe. 

“ Yes; she told me that she strayed into the church 
this afternoon, attracted by your playing. She has 
taken up her abode for the present at Goodman & 
Steele’s, and has made quite a charming studio, 
high up above the street. The room was sweet with 

17 


258 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


violets, and full of pretty things: one does not often 
light on such a dainty bower in the heart of the city. ” 

“And the lady? I had only a brief glimpse of 
her, but I confess she charmed me,” Pascoe said with 
his boyish frankness. 

“ She has charmed me, too.” 

The words came very slowly from the lips that had 
seldom made such an admission. It was a sentence 
that might mean nothing, but the voice was so quiet 
and intense that it went straight to Pascoe ’s heart, 
and thrilled him. He looked earnestly at the man 
whom he loved and reverenced more than any other 
being in the world, and saw a new and thoughtful 
sweetness in his face. Could it be that Wilmot Linn, 
the devoted worker, the priest whose life was a life 
of self-denial, had at last abandoned himself to a 
delicious dream? 

Btit when Jones arrived with a list of small 
parochial grievances, Mr. Linn was as composed and 
clear-headed as usual. 

The week ended, Sunday came, and Tracy’s face 
was seen among the worshippers of St. Monica’s. 
Seven days went by without bringing anything un- 
usual ; and yet Pascoe, against his own will, found 
himself instinctively assuming an attitude of ex- 
pectation. It seemed to him that something was in 
the air, although there was neither word nor sign to 
hint of coming changes. At last, when Saturday 
evening came round again, he went upstairs to the 
study, and paused, arrested at the door by a breath 
of sweet and subtle perfume. 

The vicar stood leaning his elbow on the mantel- 
piece, and in a glass vase, close to his arm, there 
was a bunch of violets. 

It was not the first time that Pascoe had seen flow- 
ers in the study ; sometimes, the children of the par- 
ish had sent their simple offerings. But about this 
little bouquet there was something rather remark- 
able. The violets were loosely tied with-violet rib- 


BITTER AND SWEET. 


259 


bon, and the ends of the ribbon hung over the brim 
of the vase. And Pascoe distinctly remembered 
that he had seen Miss Taunton, that very morning, 
with her usual black costume relieved by the knot 
of ribbon and the purple flowers. 

They had met as old friends, these two, drawn 
together by their mutual love for one who was gone. 
The young organist had seen little of the world, but 
he had the true poet’s insight into the deepest things 
of life ; and he understood that a rare man and a rare 
woman had come together. He recalled Tracy’s 
face, as he had seen it that very day; the pale, calm 
face which grew divine in an instant when she smiled 
or spoke. 

Then he glanced at Wilmot Linn, and saw again 
that tender, musing look which gave a new aspect 
to his features. Perhaps, as he stood gazing into the 
fire he was really looking away into the vista of a 
fresh and possible life. His own life, for .many 
years, had been a ceaseless outgiving; so much vi- 
tality had gone out of him into other lives that it was 
no marvel if he was often weary and worn. And now, 
in a sudden flash, Pascoe seemed to catch a glimpse 
of what might be in store for Mr. Linn if an individ- 
uality, rich and beautiful as his own, could be so blent 
with his that it should become a part of himself. 

On Sunday afternoon this vision of a possible fu- 
ture still haunted Pascoe as he took his way to Mar- 
get’s lodging. He felt almost afraid to face his sis- 
ter with such thoughts as these hidden in his heart. 
He dreaded Marget’s piercing gaze and searching 
questions. But he could not neglect her ; she had no 
one to love her save this brother, whose path through 
life was so much fairer than her own. Pascoe was 
painfully conscious that poor Marget did not pos- 
sess the power of winning love. 

He found her sitting at the window in her old 
moody attitude. But when he entered,, she turned 
her head sharply; to look at him... 


26 o 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“Ah!” she exclaimed. “ I was wondering if you 
would come !” 

“Wondering?” he repeated. “Do I not always 
come on Sunday afternoon, Marget?” 

She gave him a swift glance from beneath her 
golden eyelashes, and he was vexed to feel that his 
face grew hotter under her scrutiny. 

“Yes,” she returned, “you always come. But 
the world is changing. Have you brought any news?” 

“ No news at all,” he answered in a matter-of-fact 
tone. “I want to find a new boy,” he added, as if 
he had no thoughts for anything beyond the choir. 
“Tom Hardy’s voice is breaking. I can’t expect 
that it will last much longer.” 

“ I don’t want to hear about Tom Hardy, ’’she said 
pettishly. “Are there any changes at the clergy- 
house?” 

“ No,” he replied, “ things seem to be going on as 
usual. ” 

Again she raised her eyes suddenly to his. 

“ Pascoe,” she said, “ I am not well. I’m restless, 
and nervous, and morbid. I feel as if dreadful 
things were going to happen.” 

“ Oh, there’s nothing serious in those feelings,” he 
rejoined, trying to appear unconcerned. “ November 
is a gloomy month, you know; we shall have the 
fog upon, us presently, and its shadow is hovering 
over us, I suppose. ” 

She leaned forward a little, and laid her thin, 
clenched hand upon her knee. 

“There has been no fog,” she said. “We have 
had the sun. But in all my life I have never known 
such a fearful feeling as I had to-day. I’ve been 
angry sometimes, but never so awfully enraged as I 
was this afternoon. Do you want to know what I 
saw?” 

“ Dear Marget, I am afraid you exaggerate trifles, ” 
he answered faintly. • 

“ Trifles may cause horrible anguish,” she went 


BITTER AND SWEET. 


261 


on. “ I will tell you what I saw. I watched the 
vicar walking slowly with that pale woman in black, 
walking slowly, slowly, and speaking ever so quietly. 
And she answered him with her eyes, and the sun- 
shine was on both their faces. And they looked up 
high to the cross on St. Paul’s, and that, too, was 
shining in the sun. I tell you, Pascoe, that I have 
never seen him look as he looked then. And some- 
thing rose within me that made me gasp for breath, 
I was so full of rage and "hate. ” 

“Marget,”he said earnestly, “there was nothing 
remarkable in all that you saw. She is a stranger, 
and Mr. Linn is always courteous and kind. But I 
fear for you when you suffer yourself to be overcome. 
If you long for something which you cannot have, 
you ought to. take the denial patiently. The worst 
kind of pain comes from passionate rebellion ; and 
the sooner one learns that, the better for one’s peace. ” 
“ You did not see them, Pascoe.” She ignored his 

last words. “ If you had watched them as I did ” 

“Do not watch any more,” he entreated. “You 
will only torture yourself. O Marget, the sharpest 
suffering you can have to bear will not last you very 
long! Try to be patient. ” 

“I could never bear that!" she cried. “Never, 
never, never!” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


RECOGNITION. 

“Beloved, in the noisy city here, 

The thought of thee can make all turmoil cease ; 

Around my spirit, folds thy spirit clear 
Its still soft arms, and circles it with peace.” 

— Lowell. 

The autumn brought with it a sickness which 
seemed to fasten especially upon the young. The 
children of St. Monica’s fell victims one after another 
to this subtle fever-fiend; and Wilmot Linn was at 
work among them day and night. The constant 
visiting and anxiety told upon him severely; his 
strength, long overtaxed, was not equal to this new 
-strain. Moreover, Christmas was close upon him 
with all its claims; and sometimes, in the solitude 
of his own room, he would ask himself wonderingly 
how long his powers would hold out? 

Ben Shaw was on the sick-list, but his sound con- 
stitution struggled against the disease, and he did 
not suffer as others did. Tracy, in her lofty bower, 
seemed to be lifted above the reach of ills ; but she 
was ready and willing to be the helper of everybody. 
If Jane Shaw had not sternly guarded her, she would 
have gone from house to house, visiting the patients; 
but Jane was firm, and refused to let her wear out 
her newly acquired vigor. 

“ There’s work for you to do in your studio, Miss 
Tracy,” she said. “Your place is there, and it’s a 
comfort to see you in it.” 

It was a comfort to Wilmot Linn to see her there. 

262 


RECOGNITION. 


263 


When he came to visit Ben he never failed to rest 
himself in the studio. However dark the outside 
world might be, there was always light in this room , 
light, and fragrance, and warm colors ; and a woman’s 
presence hovering, like the scent of her violets, over 
every trifle. Gradually, the ordinary conventional 
restraints were melting away from between them; 
and on a certain Saturday, when he was more than 
usually spent, he did not try to conceal his exhaus- 
tion. 

“You are ill,” Tracy said, with a thrill of pain in 
her soft voice. 

He had sunk into a deep arm-chair near one of the 
windows, with his head resting on the cushioned 
back. His eyes had closed for an instant, and when 
he opened them he found that her gaze was fixed 
upon him with a wistful questioning. She was 
drawing nearer to him with a half unconscious move- 
ment, and there was a strange sweetness in the look 
that met his. 

“Oh,” she said, “why didn’t I see it sooner? And 
yet, what could I have done?” 

She faltered suddenly; the wistfulness in her eyes 
had changed to something deeper. An expression 
had dawned upon her face which made her look all 
at once like a surprised, delighted child. She had 
discovered at last that it was her old hero, worn with 
life’s conflict, saddened with life’s sorrows, who had 
come to this quiet roo'm of hers to rest. Just behind 
him, on the wall, hung the picture of Douglas, as it 
used to hang in the chamber where she had played 
in her childhood. The } T ears of womanhood faded 
away in a moment; she was the little girl once more, 
murmuring her innocent fancies in the twilight, say- 
ing over and over again the words that rose spon- 
taneously to her lips — “ My knight, my knight!” 

Wilmot Linn did not move, but sat perfectly still 
and watched her. The one feeling that overpowered 
him was the intense consciousness of a spiritual near- 


264 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


ness to her; an awakening to the sudden sense of 
having found something which had been always his, 
and yet had been hidden or withheld. 

He watched until he saw the look of pain come 
back into her deep gray eyes. Then he broke the 
silence. 

“ You must not — be anxious,” he said, and put out 
his hand and touched hers. “ I am only tired. To 
be here is a delicious rest.” 

There was another pause which seemed, somehow, 
to be full of unspoken words. Presently she had 
moved to the door, and spoken to Jane, who was 
coming upstairs. And in a little while she was 
waiting upon, him, pouring out coffee, caring for him 
in little housewifely ways that were new in his solitary 
life. It washer quietness, and the softness of all her 
movements, that impressed him more than all else. 
There did not seem to be any need for much talking 
then. Her business was to refresh him and restore 
his wasted strength, and she threw her whole heart 
into her noiseless service. 

“You have worked too hard,” she said at last. 
“ Is it right that you should always go to those who 
cry out to you to come?” 

“ It is right to go while I have strength enough to 
go,” he answered. “Don’t think that Abbott and 
Fordyce are not willing to do their part ; they are 
rqore than willing. But I have worked longer than 
they have, and the work is easier to me than to 
them.” 

“Why should it be easier to you, Mr. Linn,” she 
asked. 

“Because I pan see the souls in the dull bodies,” 
he said quietly. “ Don’t fancy that I have a quick 
sight. My eyes needed years of training; my heart 
needed years of patience. After all, it is not only 
‘light, more light,’ that we require, although we 
are always echoing Goethe’s cry — it is ‘love, more 
love. ’ ” 


RECOGNITION. 


265 


It was no new truth that he uttered, it was some- 
thing so old that Tracy felt all the sweetness of its 
familiarity. But a new singer may give a fresh 
charm to an old song. 

She gave a swift glance backward over her past 
life, and those who had come into that life, and saw 
why she had failed to win many who ought to have 
been won. Personal grace and attractiveness had 
been hers in no common degree; but under these 
outward charms there had been the hot temper, and 
the impetuous desire to chastise an offender with 
her own hands. She had been disgusted a thousand 
times with the “dull bodies” which she had met 
with and 'touched. She had not gained that clearer 
sight which love alone can give — the love which 
perceives divinity because it is enamoured of the 
Divine. 

“ I have a great deal to learn,” she said humbly; 
and he knew that she did not say it for the sake of 
being prettily contradicted. Already he was aware 
of her imperfections, and his thoughts about them 
were among the tenderest thoughts that he had of 
her. Her faults only deepened his conviction that 
she had need of him. Her sweetness only intensified 
the consciousness that he had need of her. 

But outside these needs there were the needs of 
the world in which he worked. There were those 
endless claims which had taken rnore and more out 
of him as the years went on. He had been making 
homes for others all his life, unmindful of the possi- 
bility that he might, one day, long to make a home 
for himself. 

This afternoon he gave himself up entirely to the 
quiet happiness of her companionship. To be soothed 
and fed, and waited upon— these were just the sim- 
ple comforts that a tired worker craved. But it was 
something more than these services that she gave 
him ; freely, even lavishly, her rich mind and heart 
poured all their stores into his. 


266 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

He rose to go at last, and then paused to look 
round at her pictures. 

“ Do you like this?” she asked suddenly. “ It.is a 
study which I made last summer.” 

She pointed to a water-color drawing, plainly 
framed in oak. In the foreground, among feathery 
reeds and rushes, and blue forget-me-nots, there was 
an empty boat. And beyond lay a broad, bright sheet 
of water, shining with the gold of a solemn sunset, 
spreading far out into that great light until the hori- 
zon line was lost in glory. 

“Yes,” he said, slowly and thoughtfully. “The 
boat has carried the voyager safely through the wind- 
ings of the river till he has gained the illimitable sea. 
And now it may stay there among the reeds and 
flowers, and go quietly to decay. It* is a picture 
that I should like to see always. ” 

“You shall see it always.” Her face was radiant. 
“You must give it a place in your own room. I 
will send it there to-night.” 

“Thank you,” he said. They had both been 
standing in front of the picture, and he took a step 
toward her. His eyes were fixed upon her face very 
steadfastly, and the soft repose of her manner seemed 
to give him strength. 

“ You shall do something else for me,” he went on, 
“if you will. You shall paint the children of St. 
Monica’s, study them, and let their souls be visible 
in their faces, so that the world may know them. 
Will you do this?” 

“ Indeed I will — as well as I can,” she answered, 
lifting earnest eyes to his. “ Have you found out 
that I love painting faces better than anything else? 
Mr. Linn, you shall find the faces for me, and I will 
find the souls in them.” 

“Then you may begin with Agatha March,” he 
said, a light coming into his own face. “ How 
happy that will make Pascoe ! He has confided to 
me that she is his inspiration.” 


RECOGNITION. 


267 


“ But who is Agatha March?” she asked eagerly. 

“ The seamstress who lives with the matron at St. 
Monica’s Home — the only home that she has ever 
known. She has always been a charity child ; and 
now she makes clothes for the charity children, and 
still wears the dark-blue gown like the rest, although 
she is past eighteen. I don’t think she cares to put 
off her uniform,” he added, smiling. “She has a 
notion that she may put off some of her old simple 
happiness with it.” 

“ And Pascoe Rayne, the young organist with the 
saintly face, is in love with her?” said Tracy, de- 
lighted with this glimpse of a romance. 

“There must be something deeper than that,” 
Wilmot Linn returned quietly. “ Otherwise there 
will be no real union. Boys and girls fall in love 
often; men and women love only once. It is much 
easier to fall in love than to love. ” 

Then he went his way, knowing that he should be 
drawn back again very soon. And, as he walked 
back in the November darkness to his quiet room, 
he was asking himself how all the other claims could 
still be met, if he answered this new claim? 

Pascoe Rayne still watched and expected as days 
went on; but he kept all his thoughts locked up in 
his own mind. Abbott was silent, too ; and Fordyce 
saw nothing. The fever was abating; they were 
tired with constant toil, and glad to take their rest. 
Mrs. Deale was blind, too. She was going on con- 
tentedly in the belief that things would always be 
as they had been. But there was another who saw 
what Pascoe saw, and that was Marget. 

Tracy went to St. Monica’s Home on a Monday 
morning, soon after breakfast. She took her sketch- 
book with her, and rang the bell quite boldly, sure 
of accomplishing the very thing that she had come to 
do. Never before, in all her life, had she felt such 
perfect confidence in her power to work. There 
was a sense of rightness now which had been lacking 


268 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


in the days gone by. While she stood waiting at 
the door of the great, gloomy-looking house, she was 
basking in the wonderful light that had streamed in 
upon her world. 

A little girl opened the door, and looked at her 
with intelligent eyes. She was a prim little figure, 
in a frock of dark-blue serge, and a brown holland 
apron with a bib. It was not an ugly costume, and 
it was perfectly fresh and neat, giving evidence of 
the wearer’s honest pride in her appearance. Tracy 
explained that she had been sent by Mr. Linn, and 
asked if she could see Agatha March? 

The little girl conducted her to a door at the end 
of the whitewashed passage, and ushered her into a 
small room, where a young woman sat at needle- 
work. There were such piles of garments round 
her, such heaps of hose and petticoats and calico, 
that it seemed impossible for one pair of hands to get 
through so much work in the course of a life. But 
Agatha was a person who lived by hours and days, 
doing all that she could lay hold of and see. She did 
not concern herself about the years; she always felt 
that time was given to her to be used up in small 
pieces, and used with care. 

She stood up and bowed to Tracy with a simple 
grace and quietness which had come to her by nature. 
She wore her dark-blue gown and bibbed apron, and 
it seemed as if no other costume could so well have 
set off the glowing loveliness of the girl — a loveliness 
that needed neither ribbon nor gem. She was redun- 
dant with life, health, and energy, a splendid human 
flower which had blossomed into rich beauty in this- 
smoky atmosphere. But there was no self-conscious- 
ness in her manner; and Tracy was struck by her ex- 
pression of sweetness and simplicity. 

No; she had never had her portrait taken, she said. 
Mr. Linn had sent a note to the matron to say that 
Miss Taunton was coming. She was willing to go 
to the studio if that was desired; but she hoped that 


RECOGNITION. 


269 


she might wear her uniform. She had never worn 
any other kind of dress, and could not feel at ease out 
of her blue gown. 

“ Indeed, I don’t want you to wear anything else,” 
said Tracy. “Your gown is charming; that deep, 
dark-blue shade will have a good effect in the pic- 
ture. I can see that you are very happy in your 
home.” 

“ Very happy,” Agatha answered with her brilliant 
smile. “When I was first brought here there were 
only twenty girls; now we have thirty-five. But 
there will be room for fifty, Mr. Linn says.” 

Tracy looked at her for a moment in silent admira- 
tion. She had the peach-like complexion and vivid 
bloom which can make almost any face beautiful; 
but Agatha’s beauty did not depend on her bloom. 
Her nose, slightly aquiline, had the sharply-cut nos- 
tril which indicates strong feeling; her crimson lips, 
full but not coarse, smiled faintly in repose. As 
to her eyes, they were those violet eyes often written 
about but rarely seen, which veil their rich color 
under dark lashes, and shine upon you with an un- 
expected light. The girl was aware of her charms, 
and rejoiced in them as a part of her bright life. 

Tracy felt that Pascoe Rayne was loving wisely. 
He had that melancholy temperament which is so 
often associated with artistic gifts; and the sadness 
of his early boyhood clung to him still. Agatha’s 
sunshiny nature, rich and vigorous, would blend 
naturally with his. She enjoyed living and out- 
giving, finding such fulness in her life that there 
was plenty to spare for others. Only a charity girl, 
without a relation in the world, she dwelt in the 
midst of green pastures, and walked beside the 
waters of comfort. 

The matron came forward, eager to take the new- 
comer over the Home, and pour out her hopes and 
fears for its future. Everything depended on Mr. 
Linn ; without him the institution would have dwin- 


2 JO 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


died away, and gradually ceased to exist. But he 
had done much, and hoped to do more yet. 

“ If we could secure these premises at the back, 
Miss Taunton, there would be accommodation for 
fifty girls, ” the good woman went on. “ Mr. Linn 
is straining every nerve for the children. People 
don’t realize all the work that is done in this old 
corner of the city. It makes me glad to see a new 
face, because the new face means new help.” 

Tracy went back to her room with a deep peace in 
her heart. She had found her life-work. All the 
half-unconscious longings of years were about to be 
fulfilled. She had always wanted a motive for her 
work beside the love of art which had been her rul- 
ing passion. There had been the womanly need of 
a strong guide, and a true heart to trust in ; the 
womanly desire to render help and comfort. Some 
inner voice told her that the old unsatisfied days had 
come to an end ; the poor, thin wine had been given 
at the beginning of the feast ; but the good wine had 
been kept until now. 

Wilmot Linn had hung the water-color drawing 
over his mantel-piece ; and Pascoe saw it, and asked 
no questions. About this time Mrs. Deale began to 
notice that her master was often absent from the 
study at five, and wondered if his habits were chang- 
ing at last? 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


I 

HOURS IN THE STUDIO. 

“While with an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 

We see into the life of things. ” 

— Wordsworth. 

Tracy’s picture or Agatha March made rapid 
progress. It was painted in oils, and was a small 
picture, yet large enough to do justice to the girl’s 
glorious face. It represented Agatha as the artist 
had seen her first, busy with her needlework in the 
little whitewashed room. The eyes were uplifted 
as if she had heard some sudden call, and had looked 
up from her sewing to answer. There were gleams of 
light upon the rich brown hair, and on the heavy 
folds of the dark-blue gown. 

“The picture is alive,” said Wilmot Linn, as he 
stood before the easel one day. “ And the face glows 
with fresher beauty while one looks at it. It is a 
beauty that makes one think of rich perfumes, and 
deep hues of crimson on royal purple. There is a 
sumptuousness about Agatha, and you have expressed 
the girl’s very nature.” 

“ It is the most ambitious thing I have ever 
attempted, ” Tracy confessed. “ All my powers have 
been cramped. Now, for the first time, I have room 
to move freely.” 

“You have worked, hitherto, below your ability,” 
Wilmot said. “ It is a pity to think of all those 
years spent in a narrow sphere. If. .you had come 
•hexe sooner — — ” ~ 


271 


272 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


He had turned away from the picture and was 
gazing steadily into her face — a face which looked 
like a small white flower. She waited to hear the 
end of the sentence, and there was something almost 
like the humility of appeal in her eyes. 

“You came when it was time for you to come,” he 
went on, the rare smile curving his lips. “ And 
those years were not wasted. Only it seems hard for 
us that we did not have you here then.” 

Tracy possessed the charm of being able to stand 
still and silent with perfect grace. When she broke 
the silence which followed his last words she did not 
move. She spoke with an intense quietness which 
impressed him deeply. 

“ It would be a sad thing if I had brought away 
nothing but barren recollections out of those years, 
Mr. Linn. But there were mistakes set right; 
glimpses of a higher life; hopes that never soared 
so high as when they rose above graves. I have 
carried some rich memories out of that poor old 
past. ” 

There were happy meetings, now and then, in 
the studio on these winter days. Pascoe had grown 
friendly enough with Tracy to come in and inspect 
the progress of the picture. It did not surprise the 
artist that he chose to come sometimes when the 
model was sitting. His visits were no hindrance to 
the work ; Tracy soon found that he was an uncon- 
scious helper. Like the wonderful painter in the 
American story, she'saw that those two beautiful 
faces threw light upon each other. 

As the portrait of the seamstress grew, you knew 
instinctively that Love had arrested her needle. It 
was no common call which had brought that glow 
into her upraised face. Some one had come into the 
room — into her life — and changed the peaceful calm 
into glory. 

“They have the right feeling for each other,” 
Tracy said to the vicar. “ If it had not been for 


HOURS IN THE STUDIO. 


273 


Pascoe I should not have seen her inner self so 
clearly. When he comes it seems as if her soul goes 
out to meet him.” 

“ Does he see it?” Wilmot asked. “ He had been 
distrustful, and had feared that she did not care for 
him much.” 

“ He knows better now,” Tracy answered. “ And 
I, too, know her better than I did. Mr. Linn, don’t 
you think it is possible for great personal beauty to 
hide the soul from us? We are apt to think that 
only ugliness can be a disguise. I almost believed 
at first that Agatha’s splendid face was her all. 
Story-writers have been too hard on the beauties!” 

“Yes,” he said, “when the lamp is so rich the 
flame can hardly shine through it.” 

“ I hope I shall get this picture into Burlington 
House,” exclaimed Tracy, walking backward and 
looking at her work with loving eyes. “ When I 
was a child I used to spend hours over a little daub, 
and go to bed with the rapturous notion that I had 
done something lovely. Next morning when I looked 
at it I found it hideous. Do you think there is any 
fear of my waking to-morrow and discovering that 
this thing is a fright? I am dreadfully afraid of 
delusions.” 

“This is no delusion,” Wilmot Linn replied. 
“ You have really done something lovely this time. 
But you have made me sorry for the child and her 
disappointments. ” 

“ She had a great many of them,” Tracy said, with 
a smile of remembrance. “Very few people realize 
how children suffer over their failures. I cried bit- 
terly once when I had painted an angel and grandma 
mistook it for a balloon.” 

“ Do you know that is very pathetic?” Wilmot re- 
marked, although he, too, was smiling. 

“Yes,” she answered. “Even when I grew older 
I never tried to paint an angel again. I was always 
afraid that it would turn out balloonishly. ” 

18 


274 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

“There is compensation for you in these days,” 
said the vicar. “You express your ideas now; al- 
though the power of complete expression is never 
given to anyone on earth. You are a success, and the 
world will soon know it.” 

“ I shall owe my success to the children of St. 
Monica’s,” she returned, her gray eyes shining. 
“ And if I make money I shall give it to the Home. 
For myself, I can live on very little ; somehow I have 
never wanted to be a rich woman.” 

Wilmot Linn drew a deep breath. The words 
that he longed to say were trembling on his lips at 
that moment. But, knowing how poor he was, how 
could he say them then? It was such a hard life 
that he must ask her to share; a life full of worries, 
and demands, and perplexities that she did not even 
dream of. Yet if he remained silent it was for her 
sake. If he had been a more selfish man he would 
have spoken out his love there and then. The habit 
of self-denial, strengthened by long years of practice, 
drove back the declaration. 

“You must think of yourself first of all,” he said, 
with a thrill of tenderness in his voice, “ You have 
had sorrows, and you are not strong. But after the 
strength comes back, and all due care has been taken 
of you, then ” 

“ Then I shall spend all my energies on the chil- 
dren !” she exclaimed joyfully. “ Oh, you can scarcely 
understand how sweet it will be ! I am so fond of 
anything that is young, and has to be helped. When 
you help old people they are apt to take offence, 
although they need your aid badly enough. But the 
child puts its hand into yours, and asks to be guided 
and led. And the girl comes to you with her love- 
troubles, and the boy tells you his shy hopes. It is 
delightful !” 

But he did understand. He could read the inner 
story through the outside story that every one knew. 
For years she had starved for lack of that young 


HOURS IN THE STUDIO. 


275 


companionship which would have been spiritual 
refreshment. Grandma had never been able to com- 
prehend Tracy’s delight in the society of children. 

1 But then grandma had been filled with the notion 
that she, herself, was sufficient for all cravings; she 
I had felt that, until Tracy was suitably married, she 
ought to be perfectly satisfied with her grandmother. 

Oh, those bygone years! A wave of bitter regret 
swept over Wilmot Linn’s heart again. Why could 
he not have met this woman earlier, so that they 
might have lived and worked as one? It was for her 
that he had been waiting, conscious that his life was 
incomplete, and believing that what he waited for 
would never be his -in this world. And now, just 
when he was pressed down with burdens and worn 
out with anxious labor, she had come. 

Then he looked at her radiant face, and took com- 
fort, thankful for all that was given her. More was 
yet to come; the time was surely drawing near when 
he might speak out and claim her. For the present 
there was intimate companionship, peaceful talk, and 
a sense of rest whenever he came into her sphere. 
And that sphere to him was home. 

He glanced round the room which she had made so 
personal that everything in it seemed to speak of her. 
Lamp and fire were burning with a steady glow ; the 
softness of the light mellowed all the details, and deep- 
ened the touches of color. Here a scarlet fan took an 
intenser hue; there an amber jar stood vividly out of 
the rich shadow; and in the midst of these warm 
shades and subdued lights Tracy moved, a graceful, 
slender figure, making the picture perfect. To Wil- 
mot it sometimes seemed as if they two must have 
sat here together every day for years ; it was all so 
natural and familiar and restful. 

It was six -o’clock when he went downstairs and 
passed out of the private entrance of the house, 
which opened into Budge Lane. The evening was 
dark and fine ; the air was cold, and there were stars 


27 6 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


shining high above the roofs and spires. As Mr. 
Linn came forth from the doorway he almost ran 
against a dwarfish figure which was standing there. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said mechanically; and 
the figure sped away into the lane and vanished. It 
was far too dark for him to have caught a glimpse of 
its face ; but there flashed upon him a sudden con- 
sciousness that it was some one whom he knew. The 
flash passed as swiftly as it came ; the trivial incident 
was forgotten in a moment; and he quickened his 
steps, remembering the letters that must be written 
before the last post went out. 

He found Pascoe in the study, waiting to help him ; 
and as they sat down together at the writing-table 
he was struck with the look of happiness on the 
young fellow’s face. 

“I have been to see a certain picture, Pascoe,” he 
said with a smile. 

“ Does Miss Taunton practise white magic?” young 
Rayne asked, blushing. “ It has seemed as if I 
knew Agatha better on canvas than I have ever 
known her before. She has drawn out Agatha’s 
hidden self, and revealed her to me.” 

“ She has painted not merely the features but the 
mind and heart,” the vicar answered. “That is 
what every true artist does. He looks for the soul, 
and fixes its light upon the face. Miss Taunton has 
shown you the true Agatha, Pascoe — the girl whose 
heart responds to yours. Y ou may throw your doubts 
away.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


MARGET. 

“The first part was a tissue of hugged lies ; 

The second was its ruin fraught with pain : 

Why raise the fair delusion to the skies 
But to be dashed again?” 

— C. Rossetti. 

Christmas had come and gone; January had set in 
with bitter winds, and there had been a light fall of 
snow. Marget Rayne hated winter, and complained 
unceasingly of the cold, although her brother had 
bought a long, thick cloak to protect her from the 
weather. 

“I wish it hadn’t been dark-blue,” she said. “I 
hate dark blue; it makes me think of the charity 
girls at the Home.” 

She accompanied her words with one of those ma- 
licious glances through her yellow lashes which 
Pascoe had learnt to dread. 

“ I don’t know why you should hate to think of the 
Home,” he answered, rather coldly. “The girls 
have never done you any harm.” 

“ Mr. Linn makes too great a fuss with them,” she 
replied. “They won’t be fit for work if they are 
spoilt. And they will give themselves airs.” 

“ I never saw a more modest, simple-hearted set of 
girls!” he said indignantly. 

“O Pascoe, how silly you are! Any one can see 
that you have lost your head about Agatha March, 
and she doesn’t care a straw for you. Miss Taunton 
has made her vainer than ever. She has praised 
277 


278 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


her to her face, and put her into a picture, as if she 
were the queen of beauty instead of just a common, 
pretty girl. ” 

Pascoe was as angry as his sweet nature ever per- 
mitted him to be. It might have been better for 
Marget if he had spoken out as plainly to her as 
most young men would have done. But from his 
earliest childhood he had learnt to pity her, and bear 
with her temper. His father, often unjust to his 
son, was full of compassion for his deformed daugh- 
ter; and no one had ever rebuked Marget for those 
outbursts of spite which were only too frequent. 
“ She cannot help it, poor thing,” was the usual com- 
ment on her venomous speeches. And Pascoe had 
fallen into the habit of thinking that Marget ought 
to be forgiven for everything. 

Growing up, as he had done, so close to her un- 
wholesome and unhappy life, it was well for him 
that he escaped without harm. But the disease 
which affects our bodies generally finds some predis- 
position which it seizes upon and develops ; and the 
soul mysteriously and unconsciously invites the evil 
which blights its well-being. Pascoe’s nature did 
not attract bad influences. Religion and art were 
blended in his life ; he had been sad often, but never 
miserable; lonely, but never forlorn. Each spirit 
lives in its own separate world, and Marget had 
never entered Pascoe’s world at all ; she had only 
touched upon its borders through her taste for music. 

She was painstaking, and had learnt to play well ; 
but there was no poetry in her playing. There are 
certain strange melodies hidden in the organ which 
are only yielded to the player who can evoke them. 
Marget never drew any note from the instrument 
which you did not expect to hear. She played with 
care and judgment, imitating Pascoe as closely as 
she could ; but she could not catch his inspiration. 

“After all,” she said after a pause, “it is that 
Taunton woman who deserves to be blamed. Why 


MARGET. 


*79 


did she come here, and fill the girls’ empty heads 
with vanity? The first time I ever saw her face ” 

“Do stop, Marget,” entreated Pascoe earnestly. 
“ We are wasting the afternoon. Is that the piece 
you wish me to hear you play?” 

He pointed to an open music-book which she was 
holding upon her knees. Brother and sister had met 
in the church for their usual practising on Saturday, 
and Marget had sat down in the choir-stalls instead 
of taking her place on the organ-stool. She was 
brimful of bitterness, and longed to give vent to her 
feelings; but Pascoe would not let her talk to her 
heart’s content. Moreover, there might be other 
listeners. 

She rose reluctantly, and went to the organ with 
a bad grace. Pascoe stood by her side, pulling out 
the stops, turning the leaves, and giving hints now 
and then. She played very well, despite her ill- 
temper, and he could honestly praise her. Her brow 
had cleared when the piece came to an end. 

“You have made great progress,” he said, as she 
rested. “ I am really proud of you. ” 

She smiled. The light from the music-stand fell 
on her face, and showed its softened expression. 

“ If all my pupils were as good as you are I should 
be one of * the most successful of teachers,” he went 
on, glad to have soothed her. 

“Pascoe,” she said thoughtfully, “do you think 
that I shall ever get my heart’s desire? I don’t mean 
my chief desire — nevermind what that is — but some- 
thing that comes second to it. If I believed that I 
should one day be the organist of St. Monica’s I 
could be almost happy.” 

“I think you have good reason to hope,” he an- 
swered. “ Although I love the dear church and its 
associations, it is natural that I should aspire to a 
more important post. Mr. Linn has always encour- 
aged me in this ambition. And if I am removed, 
you will be very likely to fill my place. ” 


280 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“ How can you talk so calmly of being removed?” 
she exclaimed suddenly. “ If I thought I should 
ever be taken away from St. Monica’s I should die!” 

She lifted her hand with a vehement gesture, and 
raised her voice passionately. 

“Come,” said Pascoe, “you have rested long 
enough. Play ‘Silver Trumpets’ as a finish.” 

She obeyed, and was again warmly praised. While 
she was rolling up her music he took her seat, and 
played a voluntary. 

As Marget, poor girl, loved to pour out her heart’s 
bitterness in hard words, so Pascoe poured forth his 
heart’s sweetness in lovely sounds. Both natures 
needed an outpouring. At his call, all the richness 
and tenderness contained in those old pipes came 
forth. Mellow notes of supplication, pathetic notes 
of soft complaint, holy notes of benediction, solemn 
notes of exultation — all were heard. It was the ex- 
perience of a spiritual life told in music. Two per- 
sons, who stood listening at the dark end of the 
church, felt that the player was expressing all their 
past and future for them. They stood close together 
in silence until the sweet sounds ceased ; then both 
drew a long breath, and looked toward each other in 
the half-darkness. 

“ I never heard you play better, Pascoe,” said Mr. 
Linn, as they came forward into the light. “We 
thank you with all our hearts.” 

When Marget caught sight of the vicar’s companion 
her face became distorted with passion. Wilmot 
looked at the girl kindly, and noticed that she was 
.rangely moved. 

“ Have you, too, been playing, Marget?” he asked. 

“ Yes,” she answered in a choked voice. 

She took up her music, pushed rudely past Tracy, 
and rushed out into the winter darkness, as miser- 
able a woman as could be found in the great city 
that evening. 

It was snowing a little; but if Marget had gone 


MARGET. 


281 


out barefooted into the slippery street she would 
scarcely have felt the cold. She did not hear the 
exclamations of the angry men as she jostled them 
in her headlong haste; she could not feel the pave- 
ment beneath her feet. A fire was burning within 
her so fiercely that it scorched her cheeks and parched 
her tongue. She dashed across Cannon Street, 
escaping hoofs and wheels by one of those miracles 
which seem to be so often wrought for frenzied 
humanity. Going down Dowgate Hill she slipped 
and fell, but was up in a moment, and reached her 
own door in safety. 

Without knowing how she ascended the winding 
stairs, she found herself in her room. 

It was quite dark, and only a faint red glow came 
from a morsel of fire; but the windows of the oppo- 
site buildings were lighted up brightly, and she could 
see figures moving to and fro. 

She tore off her hat and cloak and flung them on 
the bed. Then, with a half-suppressed yell of rage, 
she threw herself down upon the floor, and rolled in 
a sort of madness; howling at intervals. There was 
no one near to hear her; she was free to give vent to 
the fury that possessed her until it had spent itself. 

At last, tired out with its violence, the fierce 
little body lay still. 

There was a deep silence in the small room; the 
fire still glowed, now and then a cinder fell, and 
that was the only sound to be heard there. Pascoe 
Rayne, after knocking at the door and getting no an- 
swer, came in. 

“ Marget,” he said anxiously, “ Marget!” 

A faint moan was the sole reply. Pascoe’s heart 
seemed to stop beating for an instant: he felt a 
vague sense of coming horror which almost mastered 
him. 

“Marget,” he said again, “for heaven’s sake, 
speak! Where are you?” 

She was silent, and he advanced cautiously, hold- 


282 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


ing out his hands. The fire favored him ; a small 
flame shot up suddenly out of the embers, and re- 
vealed the figure that was lying close to the fender. 

He stooped down, and would have raised her in 
his arms, but she struck at him wildly. 

“ Let me alone,” she said, in an odd, muffled voice. 

It was such a relief to find that she was neither 
dead nor fatally injured, that Pascoe stood upright 
with a deep sigh of thankfulness. Then he remem- 
bered that the match-box was usually to be found on 
the mantel-piece ; and he groped for it, with success. 

When he had lighted the gas he returned to the 
figure on the hearth-rug. But Marget plainly was 
in no need of assistance ; she got up without diffi- 
culty, and seated herself on the side of the bed. 

“ The fire is going out,” he said; “you will take 
cold.” 

“ What does it matter?” she asked gloomily. 

He put on some fuel and coaxed it into a blaze. 
Next he set out the little black tea-pot, and cup and 
saucer, and proceeded to make tea, doing everything 
with the quiet deftness which characterized all his 
movements. Marget did not stir ; she sat and watched 
him with a scowl. 

“Come, dear,” he said, when the preparations were 
finished. “You are chilled, and it. is no wonder. 
The hot tea will do you good. ” 

“ I won’t touch it,” she declared with a stamp. 
“ I don’t know why you have followed me here. It 
is hard that I can’t be permitted to rest in peace.” 

“ I was afraid that you would be ill,” he answered, 
in his gentlest tone. “ The vicar was quite concerned ; 
he said that he could see there was something wrong. ” 

“ He said that, did he?” Marget’s glance and 
voice were very sharp. 

“ Yes, indeed he did. Be a good girl and drink 
some tea. I wish there was something nicer for you 
to eat than bread-and-butter. To morrow you shall 
have a slice of Mrs. Deale’s cake.” 


MARGET. 


283 


“ I’m not a child to be pacified with cake,” she re- 
plied tartly. “ Did Mr. Linn tell you to run after 
me when I left the church?” 

“ He said I had better go and see what was 
the matter,” returned Pascoe, taking her hand in 
his. “Come and sit by the fire, and I will make 
some toast.” 

“ Do leave off talking about things to eat,” she ex- 
claimed pettishly. Nevertheless she rose and con- 
sented to sit in the chair by the fire ; and he saw that 
she was mollified 

“Are you feeling better now?” he asked, after 
waiting till her cup was half empty, and minister- 
ing to her wants with careful attention. 

“Iam no worse,” she admitted; and then there 
was another pause. She broke it suddenly. 

“Pascoe, don’t you see that things have been go- 
ing badly ever since Miss Taunton came? She has 
cast a spell over the vicar. I don’t know how she 
has done it, for she’s not at all pretty; but I think 
she is a sort of witch. I hate her pale face, and 
horrid, soft ways. Oh, how I hate her!” 

“Do hush, Marget dear,” her brother implored. 
“You will make yourself quite ill again.” 

“I shan’t make myself ill with talking. It is a 
relief to speak, and there’s no one to speak to but 
you. Pascoe, tell me that he doesn’t care for her. 
If I thought that he did really care for her I should 
go mad!” 

The young man stood resting his arm on the nar- 
row ledge of the mantel-shelf, and gazing into the fire 
with a distressed look. Marget’s wild words ailed 
him with trouble, and made him bitterly ashamed of 
her. He answered her with unwonted sternness. 

“ Marget, it ought not to concern you if he does 
care for her. You know that he is free to do as he 
likes. He has lived for years a beautiful, unselfish 
life; and if at last he has found ” 

Marget sprang up, and wrung her hands. 


284 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“I know what you are going to say,” she cried. 
“Don’t go on. Pascoe, if it ever comes to pass I 
will not bear it. ” 

“ We must bear everything that comes. Dear 
Marget, sit down and be reasonable. There is some- 
thing that you have not noticed, but which I have 
seen coming on for a long time. Mr. Linn’s strength 
is wearing out. He is not the man that he was 
once.” 

Pascoe spoke solemnly, laying his hand on the 
girl’s heaving shoulder. His words subdued her, 
and she sank back into her chair, trembling and 
awe-stricken. She knew that he always spoke the 
truth, and the terrible fear thus suddenly presented 
to her mind had an overwhelming influence. 

“ Do you think he is going to die?” she asked 
faintly. 

“ No, no, I only meant that he was worn and 
wearied. And I think it is probable that he will 
have to go away for a rest. It is long since he has 
had a good holiday ; he has gone on and on in the 
old way, forgetting himself, and, I believe ” 

“ You believe what?” 

“ That he will never remember himself unless 
some one else becomes a part of himself. That’s 
badly expressed, I know,” Pascoe added. “I’m 
afraid I can’t make my meaning clear to you, Marget. 
But I want you to feel that you ought to welcome 
any change that is for his good. ” 

She was silent. He stooped and kissed her ten- 
derly. 

“ I must go now,” he said. “ My dear little sister, 
I wish I could give you a brighter home. It is terri- 
bly lonely here, isn’t it?” 

“ No,” she answered, “ I’m not lonely. There’s the 
music, and there are lots of things to do. You need 
not worry yourself about me.” 

He went his way, carrying a heavy heart with 
him, as he always did after a tete-a-tete with Marget. 


MARGET. 


285 


This wild passion of hers seemed to be assuming- 
formidable dimensions. She was nursing and 
cherishing it until it bade fair to overshadow her 
whole life. 

Left to herself, Marget sat and mused by the fire, 
going over all that Pascoe had said. The violence of 
her fury had subsided; she was tired and languid 
now, and could think calmly. She had faith in her 
brother; but she knew his tendency to melancholy, 
and asked herself if he had not taken too dark a view 
of things? 

It was easy, after a time, to believe that Pascoe 
was wrong. Mr. Linn was merely tired, not ill at 
all. As for Miss Taunton, if she were really as clever 
as every one supposed, she would become a great 
artist, go away from this neighborhood and forget 
them all. The very thought of Tracy’s departure 
brought new life and hope to Marget, who was only 
too ready to creep back into her fool’s paradise. 

While Pascoe, anxious and disturbed, was wonder- 
ing how his sister would get through the night, she 
was moving about her room in high spirits, a new 
creature. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


TOGETHER. 

“I have no words to tell what way we walked, 

What unforgotten path now closed and sealed ; 

I have no words to tell all . things we talked, 

All things that he revealed. ” 

— C. Rossetti. 

In these days Tracy was so happy that she asked 
no questions of her heart. To have found her ideal 
realized, this alone was happiness. Everything that 
Wilmot Linn said or did, every look in his face, came 
to her with a sweet sense of familiarity. It seemed 
to her that she had always known him. 

It has been well said by a modern writer that 
“when intercourse is very close and very frequent, 
so complete is the exchange of souls, that recogniz- 
able bits of one soul begin to show in the other’s 
nature, and the second is conscious of a similar and 
growing debt to the first. This mysterious approxi- 
mating of two souls who has not witnessed?” Pascoe, 
quietly observant, witnessed it constantly. 

Those spring days found Wilmot Linn continually 
turning over in his mind a problem which has puz- 
zled many single men. How was it possible to blend 
another life with his own without disturbing all those 
lives that had grown up around him? Meanwhile he 
said nothing of this inner questioning to the person 
whom it chiefly concerned. 

Tracy was, as he had predicted, a success. Her 
picture of Agatha March was accepted and honored 
with a good place ; and it attracted the attention of 
286 


TOGETHER. 


287 


all the leading art critics. Her delight was so honest 
and child-like that it made Wilmot feel young. She 
was full of plans and hopes which he could not help 
sharing. 

“I shall do wonders for the Home,” she said. 
“ Do you know that Jane actually asked a silly ques- 
tion this morning? When a sensible person says a 
silly thing it positively gives one a shock. She asked 
if I meant to seek new quarters?” 

“And you will not?” His eyes anticipated her 
answer. 

“ Of course I will not. I have learned to love my 
city home too well. All my best thoughts have 
come to me here; how can I tell that they would 
follow me elsewhere?” 

The face that she turned toward him at that mo- 
ment was marvellously bright. Never, even in her 
younger days, had she looked as radiant as she did 
then. All the good things that she had desired 
seemed to have been showered upon her at once. 

“ I do see,” he said slowly. And his smile was so 
beautiful, and so full of deep meaning, that she felt, 
just then, a pressure of happiness almost too great to 
bear. He was still holding the hand that he had 
taken when he came in, and he went on to say that 
he had come to make a request. 

“Next Wednesday,” he continued, “is Mr. La- 
zelle’s birthday. My own birthday is unknown, and 
so I have borrowed his. When I was a child he al- 
ways gave me that day as a feast-day; all the joy 
that I ever had came through him.” 

He paused for an instant. The eyes, looking into 
hers with such an intense gaze, grew misty; and in- 
voluntarily her hand nestled itself more closely into 
his. 

“And we remember his birthday still,” he said. 
“ There is an old friend of his and mine, a Mrs. Will- 
wood, who keeps up the feast. She lives in a quiet 
old house down by the river; and always, on the 


288 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


thirtieth of June, I go there with Fordyce and Pascoe, 
and some of the children from the Home. We 
spend most of the time in the hayfields; it is just a 
simple, wholesome holiday. Will you come with us?” 

“Yes,” she said joyfully, “I will come. And 
Agatha?” 

“We shall have Agatha,” he answered. “And 
we shall take Pascoe’ s sister Marget, a poor girl who 
has very few pleasures.” 

Tracy suddenly called up a vision of the deformed 
figure and strange, malignant face which had some- 
times crossed her path. 

“ Marget Rayne,” she said after a pause. “ Yes, I 
have seen her several times. But — is she quite like 
other people?” 

“ Not quite,” he replied. “ I think Pascoe grieves 
over her in silence. She has peculiarities, and the 
dear fellow finds her temper uncertain. We shall 
try to give her a happy day.” 

“You love to give people happy days,” she said. 

“ Think of all the happy days that were given to 
me through one man’s influence,” he returned, 
with that quick lighting-up of the face that no one, 
who had once seen, could ever forget. “ And think 
how easy it is to enrich the lives nearest to us. 
Such a little thing will do it; a pleasant word 
spoken here; a helpful word there; even a smile 
given, when one has nothing else to give. The 
wonder is that we don’t give more; the pity is 
that we forget, even for an hour, the perpetual 
needs of humanity. ” 

A faint shadow came over Tracy’s brightness. 
She spoke with a touch of regret. 

“ I can be pleasant sometimes, ” she admitted. 

“ But not to every one, always. It is so fearfully 
hard. I have not found it hard often, because I 
have seldom been sorely tried. ” 

As the words .passed her lips she thought again of 
the deformed girl who had given her malicious 


TOGETHER. 


289 


glances for her civil words. Insignificant as Marget 
was, the holiday would lose something if she shared 
it. After all, it takes the merest trifle to spoil a day’s 
pleasure. 

“ You do not know what good you have done,” said 
Wilmot gently. “I am always hearing of Miss 
Taunton’s kindnesses. Many of our best gifts are 
unconsciously given. Don’t you remember that — 

The gift without the giver is bare ’ ? 

It is the spontaneous outgiving of ourselves — of the 
life that is in us — that blesses others.” 

Mrs. Willwood was not a rich woman; but she 
lived in a house which had been her father’s before 
her, and welcomed her friends to a peaceful home. 
It was a gray house, made green with ivy, and over- 
grown with flowery creepers. The swallows knew 
it well, and darted in and out of the old chimney; 
birds sang round it all through the long summer 
days. The garden went sloping down to the fields, 
and the fields shelved away to the river. Cows 
stood half-hidden in the long grass by the water-side ; 
a boat floated among the weeds, and you caught 
glimpses of the fishes gliding about in the clear 
brown shallows. It was a sweet pastoral country 
here, seen through delicate veils of light and shade; 
and to Tracy it seemed as if she had come to a silent, 
sunshiny dreamland. 

Wilmot Linn found a bench in a nook between the 
trees, and led her away from the hayfield to sit there 
and rest. It was afternoon; the banks cast long 
shadows into the water, green tendrils and strag- 
gling flowery trailers drooped down to meet the 
ripples ; all was lovely ; everywhere there was the 
splendor of a bright peace. 

He looked at Tracy’s happy face, as she sat by his 
side. Surely this was a veritable glimpse of the 
earthly paradise. 
l 9 


290 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“ This is a little bit of rest for you,” she said, sud- 
denly and softly,, as she turned toward him. “You 
are looking pale and tired. Is there anything the 
matter?” 

“There are the usual little worries,” he answered. 
But it was evident that he was not thinking of wor- 
ries then ; and his eyes seemed to draw hers to meet 
them. She did meet them for an instant; then a 
faint pink tinted her cheeks, and gave an indescrib- 
able freshness and girlishness to her face. 

“The little foxes spoil the vines, don’t they?” she 
said. “ And the little drops wear away the stone. 
Ah, Mr. Linn, I wish you would take care of your- 
self!” 

He made a slight movement which brought him 
closer to her side. 

“ You have made my life dearer to me than it has 
ever been before,” he said gently. “ Phave really 
determined to take a holiday. There is an old man 
in Scotland who has often asked me to stay with him, 
and I will go and get fresh air and quiet.” 

“You really will go?” she asked. “Yoil won’t 
let any one turn you from your purpose? Promise 
me!” 

“ I do promise you,” he replied. “ There is a rea- 
son why I want to see Mr. McDougall — a reason 
which I will explain to you later on. Years ago, in 
my Oxford days, I saved his only son from drown- 
ing, and he has insisted that he is my debtor ever 
since. The son died last year, and he is utterly 
alone-now.” 

“Ah, then I know you will go!” she said, with a 
sigh of relief. “ And now, we must make the most 
of this enchanting day. It is a day that will light 
up all future days. I have been in country places 
often enough ; but I have never found such a charm 
anywhere else. Why is it?” 

“ I think,” he answered quietly, “it is because we 
are together.” 


TOGETHER. 


29I 

The confession did not surprise her in the least. 
After all, there was little need to put the sense of 
oneness into words. Sitting there side by side, 
hints were taken, and looks understood which con- 
veyed the gist of long and delicate explanations. 
Each lived by faith ; each was willing to wait a lit- 
tle longer before the bond should be revealed to the 
world. 

“Oh!" she said, looking away across the sun-dap- 
pled grass, “ shall we ever be happier than we are 
at this moment? In another world shall we ever 
know a sweeter feeling than this?” 

“ It is the best part of all our lave here that will 
survive,” he answered. “Do not doubt it. The 
bodies of things must always perish when their time 
comes. But the souls of things must always live.” 

A stable clock struck five. It was the hour for 
joining the rest of the party, and both rose instinc- 
tively from their seat. Yet they lingered ; Tracy, 
with her head thrown back a little, looked at the 
sunny lights quivering on the water. He had come 
so close to her that she rested against him, feeling 
the light pressure of his arm. 

They stood thus, in happy silence, for half a 
minute, perhaps; and then there was a slight rustle 
in the grass near. In the next instant, Marget 
Rayne, holding her hat in her hand, suddenly ap- 
peared before them. 

The summer light poured over her misshapen 
figure, and touched the dazzling red gold of her 
hair. There was something so strange and witch- 
like in her aspect, and so intensely malicious in her 
gaze, that Tracy felt a painful thrill of fear. 

“ I have come to call you to tea,” the girl said. 

“ We are coming,” returned Wilmot Linn. “The 
clock has only just struck. Have you enjoyed 
yourself, Marget?” 

“ Not so much as other people have,” she answered, 

with another look at Tracy. 


292 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“ How is that? We all came here prepared to be 
happy,” said Mr. Linn kindly. 

“Some people monopolize everything,” rejoined 
Marget mysteriously. “ Some have to eat the crust 
while others devour the cake. It’s a great shame.” 

“Why, Marget, there is cake enough for every- 
body,” Wilmot said with a smile. “You will find 
piles of it on the long table under the trees.” 

“Oh, yes; that sort of cake is common enough,” 
she replied. 

All three walked back toward the house ; but once 
or twice Marget fell into the rear. She tormented 
herself by examining Miss Taunton critically, and 
trying to believe that she was badly dressed. And 
yet — oh, poor Marget! could anything be more per- 
fect than that soft gray gown, fitting closely to the 
slender figure and revealing all its grace? As they 
drew near the garden gate she left them altogether 
and stealthily climbed the fence that divided the 
shrubbery from the fields. Thus she reached the 
lawn by a short cut, and joined the group who stood 
waiting for their coming. 

Mrs. Willwood was charmed with Tracy. As she 
watched the pair advancing toward her, crossing 
sunshine and shadow, she turned to young Fordyce 
to say words that came spontaneously from her lips. 

“ They are made for each other,” she said. 

The curate looked at her blankly through his spec- 
tacles. 

“ You don’t think he will ever marry, do you?” he 
asked. 

“ Why should he not?” the widow demanded. 

“ Well, there certainly is no reason why he should 
not,” admitted Fordyce with a perturbed air. “ But 
if he does there will be many changes.” 

“ One always expects changes when there is a mar- 
riage,” Mrs. Willwood replied. “I wish he would 
get married. Then he would be rested and cared 


TOGETHER. 293 

for. All you stupid men do not know how to look 
after him properly.” 

“We have an excellent housekeeper,” said Fordyce 
feebly. 

“ I dare say you have. I know precisely what ex- 
cellent housekeepers are worth. The truth is, Mr. 
Fordyce, that celibacy is a wretched mistake.” 

“ Is it really?” said the curate in an innocent voice. 

They all sat down to tea in that old-fashioned gar- 
den of lilies and yew hedges. The meal was a long 
one; every one was in high spirits; even Marget 
seemed to have forgotten her ill-humor for a little 
while. They lingered until the light was turning 
yellow, and the shadows were beginning to grow 
long; and then the party said their adieux to their 
hostess, and all set off to the railway station. 

Pascoe had eyes and ears for Agatha only; she was 
under his especial care, and he could scarcely spare 
a thought to his sister. Mr. Fordyce was occupied 
with the younger ones; Marget had to shift for her- 
self. 

While they waited on the platform for their train 
to come up, her jealous eyes were keenly watchful. 
Tracy and Mr. Linn were standing together; the air 
was getting chilly, and Marget saw him take the 
light woollen shawl which she carried, and fold it 
round her shoulders. He was a long time in doing 
this, Marget thought; he lingered over that slight 
woman as if he found delight in every touch, wrap- 
ping the shawl about her throat, and bending down 
to look with loving eyes intently into hers. 

Alas, how Marget hated her! 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


FROM SOUL TO SOUL. 

“How have our lives and wills (as haply erst 
They were, ere this forgetfulness begun) 

Through all their earthly distantness outburst. 

And melted, like two rays of light, in one.” 

— Lowell. 

From that day by the river there was a change in 
Wilmot Linn. He had become almost feverishly 
anxious for his holiday. In looking back upon this 
time afterward all those around him remembered 
his anxiety, and saw how it was controlled by his 
sweet habit of patience. 

John Abbott, the senior curate, did all that he 
could to hurry on Wilmot’s departure. Abbott was 
a grave man, devoted to his work ; and he realized 
more fully than any of the others how much that 
work had exhausted the strength of Wilmot Linn. 
If he guessed that a new influence had swayed the 
vicar’s life, he kept the knowledge to himself. 

It was scarcely three weeks before the paths of 
Wilmot and Tracy diverged again ; and both seemed 
to themselves and to each other to be hurrying 
through the days. She knew that he was looking 
forward to solving that problem of his, although he 
had never told her so in words. And she saw that 
the anxiety was wearing him. 

They had come to the last week in July. Tracy, 
herself unsettled, beheld everything in the glow of 
a wonderful light which lay, like a sunny haze, 
over the future. She, too, was hastening her depar- 
294 


{'ROM SOUL TO SOUL. 


295 


tufe from London; Laura was writing entreating 
letters from the country ; Kate had got engaged to a 
new-comer in the neighborhood, and the mother could 
not make up her mind to like him. She wanted 
Tracy’s opinion ; Tracy, when she chose to come out 
of her world of dreams, could be shrewd in her judg- 
ment. 

Wilmot Linn came to see her on her last evening; 
and they were together for a few minutes in the light 
of the sunset. They had not much to say to each 
other just then. It was only to be a parting for four 
short weeks ; they repeated this over and over again, 
looking into each other’s faces in the stillness and 
glow of the hour. 

“When I have seen Mr. McDougall I shall be 
more satisfied,” Wilmot Linn admitted. “You will 
not be away longer than a month? I shall return 
before you ; three weeks are all that I can spare. ” 

“I have promised to give Laura a month,” she 
replied. “ But I don’t think that I need so long a 
holiday. Every one says that I have gained strength 
wonderfully since I came here. However, I must 
not offend Laura and her girls. ” 

“No,” he said, “you must not offend any one. It 
is only saying good-by for a very little while,” he 
added, his eyes looking down on her, deep and sol- 
emn with intense feeling. 

“ For a very little while,” she repeated, with a faint 
quiver in her sweet voice. 

“Thank you for all your goodness to me,” he said 
suddenly, yet with great gentleness. 

“ Thank you for all the bright hours you have given 
me, and the comfort that has sweetened my life.” 

The next instant he saw that tears had risen in her 
eyes. 

“ No,” she said, “ I will not let you thank me, Mr. 
Linn. Why should I? It is my life that has been 
sweetened, and comforted. You do not realize all 
that you have done for me!” 


296 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

He held her hand in silence. The look that she 
saw in his face could scacrely have been expressed 
in any words he knew. And yet he might have 
spoken if Pascoe, an unwilling intruder, had not come 
at that moment to the door. 

“ I am sorry to trouble you, sir,” he said. “But 
they think that Walker is really dying this time, and 
he says that he can’t go without seeing you.” 

So Wilmot Linn went away. He paid his visit to 
the sick man, and then started for Scotland by mail 
train. 

In the early morning Tracy rose, her heart still 
full of gladness, and drove away to the railway sta- 
tion. Jane Shaw looked after the departing cab for 
a moment, wishing that she, too, were going off to 
woods and green fields. But Jane and her family 
were prospering as they had never done in the old 
rural days, and after a sigh or two she turned back 
to her houshold work with a contented mind. 

“ Why do you all look at me so?” demanded Tracy, 
standing in the middle of a group of relations. “ You 
stare as if I were a ghost, and you expected me to 
vanish into vapor!” 

“No,” said Laura, “you are not nearly so ghost- 
like as you were when we saw you last. You have 
certainly become more substantial. And there is 
something new about you — a curious freshness and 
brightness which can’t be defined!” 

“Laura, you are getting poetical,” cried Tracy, 
with a little laugh. “ Freshness and brightness at 
my age! A woman with marriageable nieces!” 

“ Indeed, Aunt Tracy, you are looking surprisingly 
young. And your face is fuller,” said Kate, touch- 
ing the soft cheek. “Yet you must have worked 
very hard, for people are talking about your picture. 
We thought that you would come to us jaded and tired, 
and we made up our minds to pet you. ” 

“Always carry out good intentions,” returned 
Tracy, with a glance at the well-spread table. “ I 


FROM SOUL TO SOUL. 297 

am ready for any amount of petting, and any quantity 
of nice things to eat.” 

“Dear me, you are very much altered,” Mrs. 
Dawley remarked. “ What a miserable appetite you 
used to have at the Laurels!” 

“Oh, that was a hundred years ago, at least!” cried 
Tracy lightly. “ I am a robust person nowadays.” 

“Are you not going to move away from that 
dreadful place in the City?” asked Laura, in just 
the old voice of remonstrance. “ When people want 
to know where you are living I am ashamed to tell 
them.” 

“ There is no reason why you should blush for me, 
is there?” inquired Tracy calmly. “ I do not drop 
my h’s, and my conversation does not savor of the 
Stock Exchange.” 

“But is there any one to associate with? You 
used to be so particular about your friends, Tracy!” 

“ I am particular now.” Her smile was sweet, but 
inscrutable. “ Still if you think I have deteriorated, 
Laura, you can tell me so.” 

“ Oh, no; you have not deteriorated. And of 
course we are all proud of your success. I suppose 
it is the success, Tracy, that has made you so wonder- 
fully bright. It can’t be city air, you know, can it?” 

“No,” said Tracy softly, “it can’t be city air; al- 
though that isn’t quite as pestilential as you fancy. 
So I suppose it must be the success.” 

The warm summer days went by in a tranquil, 
yet busy fashion. Kate’s lover was introduced to 
Tracy, and approved of; and then she gladly under- 
took the task of convincing Frank and Laura that he 
was worthy of the high honor of being their son-in- 
law. She enjoyed her rambles in the woods, the 
sweet country air, the simple delights of a rustic 
life ; and yet she found herself wishing that the hours 
would fly faster. Would the end of the month never 
come? 

It wanted, at last, only three days to the time of 


298 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

her departure. A cheerful letter from Jane Shaw 
had told her that her rooms were in apple-pie order, 
and that Mr. Linn had come back to the clergy- 
house. Ben had seen him, and had reported that 
he was in good spirits. And after reading that let- 
ter Tracy’s heart throbbed with thankfulness and 
joy. 

Only three more days! She had been out walk- 
ing one afternoon, and had gone farther than usual, 
and was tired. Her bedroom, with its fresh white 
draperies and vine-wreathed casements, was full of 
dreamy evening light. It was so peaceful and still 
here, that she sank down, in a pleasant kind of weari- 
ness, on the white bed ; and, in a few moments, fell 
asleep. 

It was not perhaps a very profound sleep. She 
was vaguely conscious, all the while, that Kate’s 
doves were cooing in their wicker cage under the 
porch ; and yet she had sunk into a complete rest of 
body and mind. She lay in the light shade of the 
white curtain, and now and then the flower-scented 
air breathed softly on her closed eyes. 

Suddenly, yet gently, she was awakened. A 
voice, softer than the summer air, had spoken to her. 
It was as if the words had been uttered by some one 
who had bent over her face while she slept, and 
then passed on. 

She lifted her head from the pillow, happy, rested, 
filled with a delightful peace. It was Wilmot Linn’s 
voice which had roused her so softly ; and he had 
said, or seemed to say: 

“Remember that we shall never be parted.” 

He must have been thinking of her, she said to 
herself; it was just one of those cases of thought- 
transference which only seem mysterious because we 
do not yet know the spiritual capabilities within us. 
She rose, and gave a glance at the little clock on the 
mantel-piece. The hands were pointing to half-past 
four. 


FROM SOUL TO SOUL. 


299 


As she stood before the glass arranging her hair, 
and putting on a fresh ruffle, her fingers trembled 
slightly. She was filled with any indescribable feel- 
ing of happiness and confidence — a feeling which had 
nothing in common with any ordinary excitement 
that she had ever known. How had the voice come 
to her? Was it an echo from some memory-cavern 
within herself, or had it travelled through the air to 
reach her outward ears? It was impossible to know. 

The hour of departure came two days later. There 
were the usual farewell words and kisses; and then 
followed the drive to the quiet railway station, and 
the uneventful journey home. 

It was afternoon when she found herself once more 
before the familiar door in Budge Lane. Jane’s 
husband came out to help the cabman with the .lug- 
gage, and it struck her at once that his face was very 
grave. 

“Are they all well, Shaw?” she asked quickly. 

“Yes, miss, all well.” 

She went up the long dark stairs with a chill upon 
her heart. Something was coming, something 
awaited her. Jane was standing outside the open 
door of the studio with hands outstretched in wel- 
come. Quietly, and with gentle force, she drew 
Tracy into the room, and put her into an easy-chair. 


I 


CHAPTER XL. 

LEFT ALONE. 

“When shall they meet? I cannot tell 
Indeed when they shall meet again. 

Except some day in Paradise ; 

For this they wait, one waits in pain ; 

Beyond the sea of death love lies 
Forever, yesterday, to-day : 

Angels shall ask them, ‘Is it well?’ 

And they shall answer, 4 Yea. ’ ” 

— C. Rossetti. 

“Jane, what is it. You have something to tell 
me.” 

There was a determined look in Tracy’s face — a 
look which said plainly that she was resolved, at any 
cost, to hear the truth. 

“Yes, Miss Tracy.” Jane’s voice shook pain- 
fully. “Yes. And it is something about Mr. Linn.” 

“ Is he dead?” 

Jane’s lips opened and closed again. She was 
trembling like a leaf. 

“Speak,” said Tracy, imperiously. 

“ He — is dead.” 

It seemed to the poor woman that the face on 
which she was gazing had suddenly turned to stone. 
Every tinge of color had faded from the lips ; there 
was no sound, not even a sigh, to break the awful 
stillness. 

But the strength which had always come to Jane 
Shaw at an emergency did not fail her now. She 
unfastened the cloak, threw off the travelling cap, 
300 


LEFT ALONE. 


301 


and tenderly drew the slight form into her arms. 
Ben was near at hand, and came promptly in answer 
to his mother’s call. To the two eager watchers it 
was a long time before the still figure stirred once 
more. As Jane smoothed the dark hair away from 
the delicate face that lay cold and white upon her 
shoulder, she thought of the days when she had 
soothed the passionate child long ago. Tracy did 
not speak, but she moved closer to the faithful ser- 
vant; and Jane, holding her in her strong arms, bent 
over her, comforting her with loving words, as 
though she had been a little girl again. 

When Tracy made an effort at last to rise from 
the easy-chair, she found that she could scarcely stand 
without support. Twilight was coming on; gray 
shadows were darkening in the room, and she shiv- 
ered from head to foot. But Ben had lighted a fire ; 
her chair was moved to the hearth, and they coaxed 
her to sit down and be still. 

The old wish that has come to millions of stricken 
hearts was rising in hers at that moment, as she sat 
shivering by the blaze. Oh, that she could follow 
him ! Was there no way — no sinless way — to escape 
from this mortal prison, and be free to go where he 
had gone? She gave a deep, heavy sigh, as the in- 
evitable answer forced itself on her mind. It was 
possible that she might have to live a long time; but 
not very long, oh, surely not very long! 

Jane moved softly about the room, now bright with 
lamp and fire. Miss Tracy would want her pres- 
ently; she waited till the call should come; and it 
did come in a little while. Tracy spoke almost in 
her natural voice. 

“Jane, I want to know everything! When did he 
die?” 

Jane Shaw went quietly to the fire and sat down by 
her young lady’s side. She answered, as she knew 
it was best to answer, with perfect frankness and 
simplicity. 


302 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“ Three days ago. It was in the afternoon ; they 
think it must have been about half-past four.” 

“Ah!” 

Tracy sat upright, and it seemed as if a sudden 
ray of light illumined her face. Her eyes had a 
look of bright remembrance. Just for an instant the 
sharp anguish of separation was deadened ; she knew 
that soul had spoken to soul, his soul to hers, as she 
had lain between sleeping and waking. It had been 
no miracle ; love had found out its power, and had 
done its best. 

Jane looked at her surprised, and almost awed. 
There was a moment’s silence, and then Tracy spoke 
again in a quiet tone. 

“ Go on, Jane. Begin at the beginning, and tell it 
all right through,” she said. 

“When Mr. Linn came back from Scotland,” Jane 
began, “ he was in excellent spirits, but I did not 
think, myself, that he looked over well. There was 
something strained and worn about his face, although 
he told everybody that he was much better. His 
holiday was prolonged, miss, as I told you in my let- 
ter. He returned just five days ago.” 

“Yes,” said Tracy, listening calmly. 

“ Three days ago — on the first of September — he 
got up rather late in the morning, and owned to Mrs. 
Deale that he felt uncommonly tired. Still, he 
spoke cheerfully enough, and the old woman — she is 
getting very old, Miss Tracy — did not think much 
of what he had said. All day he went in and out as 
usual ; and at a quarter to four Mrs. Deale carried his 
tea upstairs. She brought in the tray, and set it on 
the round table in the middle of the room. Mr. Linn 
was sitting in the arm-chair at his writing-table in 
the oriel window. Mr. Abbott was there, and they 
were talking together. A few minutes later she 
heard Mr. Abbott come downstairs. It was a sultry 
day ; the house was very warm and still, and she be- 
lieves that she fell asleep in her little parlor. ” 


LEFT ALONE. 


303 


Jane paused, and cleared her voice. Tracy’s eyes, 
shining steadily, were fixed upon her with a con- 
straining power which compelled her to go on. 

“ Between seven and eight o’clock Pascoe Rayne 
went up to the study and found the room nearly 
dark. Mr. Linn was still sitting at the writing-table ; 
but he had sunk back in the arm-chair as if he had 
fallen asleep.” 

“And then?” said Tracy quietly. 

“ The young fellow found that he was strangely 
still. He put his hand on the vicar’s shoulder, and 
a dreadful fear came into his mind. There was no 
sigh, no movement at all. Then he got a light, and 
saw that Mr. Linn’s face was quite colorless, and 
very, very calm.” 

Tracy was shivering again, but she was utterly si- 
lent, and did not weep. It was Jane who could no 
longer restrain her tears. Presently her young lady 
spoke in the same gentle, quiet tone. 

“ Mr. Abbott was the last person who saw him 
living, was he not?” 

“Yes; the very last.” 

“What did Pascoe do — afterward?” 

“ He ran downstairs, and met Mr. Abbott in the 
hall. The man Jones had just come in, and they 
sent him for the doctor. And then Pascoe, in his 
sore distress, rushed out-of-doors, and went to that 
deformed sister of his to tell her what had hap- 
pened.” 

“And that is all, Jane? There is nothing more?” 

“Nothing more,” Jane repeated in a tired voice. 
The hardest part of her task was accomplished, and 
she was beginning to feel the effect of the strain. 
“ Only that Mr. Abbott wants to see you, Miss Tracy, 
when you can bear to see any one.” 

“ I shall see him to-morrow. You must think of 
yourself, and rest, dear Jane.” 

She laid her hand tenderly on the faithful woman’s 
shoulder, and smiled. It was a smile so sad, and yet 


304 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

so loving and patient, that Jane went quietly away 
to weep in solitude. 

But Tracy did not see Mr. Abbott till several days 
after her return. She lay, worn out, on her bed, 
and saw no one but Jane, who waited on her almost 
in silence. 

When the hour of the funeral came, and she knew 
that the old words were being spoken over Wilmot 
Linn, she bowed her head, and joined in the service 
mutely, present at least in spirit. The day was fair 
and still; above the housetops she could see a calm 
sky, faintly tinted with blue, and flecked with snowy 
clouds. He had won peace ; a deeper, calmer peace 
than any which earthly happiness could have given 
him. Yet all that was good and true in those short 
months of their happy intercourse would live on. 
Their love had been of that best and highest kind 
which alone can stand the test of death. 

And then her mind travelled back slowly to the 
day after grandma’s funeral at Ferngate; and she 
thought of the knitting, and the unfinished row 
which had been left for her to complete. 

There was a work left for her hands to take up, 
and continue for him. The Home would need all the 
help that she could give. And, after all, the time 
was short, and the labor would be sweet and fruitful. 

And so the prediction, uttered long ago under the 
old trees at Woodcourt, had been fulfilled in Tracy’s 
life. “ In the day of your great anguish remember 
the poor gypsy,” Esther Lee had said; and the day 
had verily come. Tracy did remember her, and re- 
called, too, the parting words of that strange proph- 
ecy — “ The light will shine again at the close. ” 


CHAPTER XLI. 


A MYSTERY. 

“ Has he told her heaven unites again the links that earth 
has broken? 

For on earth so much is needed: but in heaven Love is 
all.” 

— A. A. Procter. 

It was the day after the funeral, and John Ab- 
bott was standing in Wilmot Linn’s study alone. 

The golden afternoon had not yet begun to wane, 
and even in this dark corner of the city there was a 
dim glow of light. It seemed to John Abbott as if 
he were looking at an old sunset as he stood here. 
He could remember an afternoon years ago, when the 
light had been like this; and at the thought of Wil- 
mot Linn his image came distinctly back, and seemed 
to stand in the old place. It was only an instan- 
taneous impression; the vision was in his own mind, 
and passed away, leaving the empty room with its 
neat book-shelves and orderly writing-table. And 
then, chancing to look across to the chimney-piece, 
his glance rested on the water-color drawing of the 
empty boat. 

As he looked at the picture he caught, for the first 
time, that subtle hint of an allegory which the artist 
had expressed; and he wondered that he had never 
understood the suggestion until this moment. But 
one of the attributes of true art is unobtrusiveness ; 
its real meaning is often hidden till the time for rev- 
elation has come. The heart must undergo a cer- 
tain discipline before it reads the lesson aright. 

20 305 


3 °6 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


Ever afterward Abbott remembered that first half- 
hour spent alone in Wilmot Linn’s room, when Wil- 
mot was gone. The room would be his now ; he was 
here to carry out the last wishes of the dead friend 
who had left everything in his hands; and now that 
he found himself again in the old study, he breathed 
the familiar atmosphere of calm and peace. 

The fragrance of a sweet unselfish life was cling- 
ing to this place; everything seemed to breathe of 
Wilmot Linn; the peculiar quietness which had 
marked all his doings seemed to be lingering behind 
him. It was so tranquil here that a sense of com- 
fort came creeping into John Abbott’s heart una- 
wares. What was this mortal existence? What was 
time? What was death? 

There was no fear in his mind when he opened the 
drawers of the writing-table. Wilmot Linn had 
been his guide, his companion, and his own familiar 
friend ; and he knew that he should find nothing that 
would sully the whiteness of that dear memory. 
There are lives which look fair enough till death 
suddenly reveals their secrets; and there are deaths 
which shed an unexpected glory over misunderstood 
lives. 

He turned over one paper after another, and if a 
tear fell on these records of the past it was no shame 
to his manhood. These papers were not very many, 
nor were they of any great importance. Verses, notes 
of college lectures, jottings of stray thoughts, and 
packets of old letters from early friends were among 
the collection. Presently he came to a large blue 
envelope, and found inside a bunch of withered vio- 
lets tied with a piece of purple ribbon. And then 
he passed his hand across his eyes, and sank back 
musing into the easy-chair. He was still absorbed 
in thought when the door opened quietly, and a slen- 
der figure, clad in black, glided in. 

“ Miss Taunton, ” he said, starting up. “ They told 
me that you were ill.” 


A MYSTERY. 307 

“ But I am better, ” she answered in her clear, sweet 
voice. “ Did you not wish to see me?” 

“ I could not expect to see you here. It must have 
cost you a great effort to come,” he replied, placing 
a chair for her. She threw off her long black cloak, 
and sat down in silence. 

“ Don’t look so doubtfully at me, Mr. Abbott,” she 
said at last. “ I am not so fragile as I seem.” 

He was indeed looking at her with an intent gaze, 
and thinking that he had never seen any human be- 
ing so like a spirit as she was then. He felt the 
charm of her ethereal grace, and that subtle power 
of hers which was always so difficult to define. 

“Are you not going beyond your strength?” he 
asked. “ Mrs. Shaw told me that you had broken 
down.” 

“ No,” she replied. “ I have not broken down. I 
can bear things which would kill some women. Be- 
lieve in me, Mr. Abbott, and say all that you have 
to say.” 

There was not the least excitement in her man- 
ner. She was always gentle, even in moments of 
enthusiasm; and now, although her paleness was 
startling, there was nothing strained or unnatural 
in her tone. 

“I do believe in you,” he said involuntarily. 
“ But you will have need of all your firmness here. 
Do you recognize this?” 

She put out her hand to take the blue envelope 
which he was holding toward her. The frail little 
hand did not tremble, and she took the paper reso- 
lutely. 

“I do,” she answered, with a glance at the faded 
flowers. “They were the first I ever gave him.” 
Abbott was silent, and she looked up at him suddenly 
with a faint smile. He could just see the gleam of 
the gray eyes through the thick black fringes, and 
felt that a strong will was shining in them. 

“Again I must ask you to believe in me,” she 


308 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


said softly. “ I have more strength than you are 
aware of. I think there is something that you want 
to say.” 

“ There is,” he answered, in a grave tone. “ But 
first I must ask you a question. Did you receive a 
letter from Wilmot Linn, written on the day of his 
death?” Tracy quivered from head to foot, and 
the hands which held the blue envelope were trem- 
bling now ; but her voice was composed when she 
spoke. 

“No; I did not receive any letter.” 

“Ah!” John Abbott hesitated a moment. “But 
he had been writing to you, Miss Taunton, just be- 
fore he died!” 

“ How do you know?” she asked. 

“ Because I was the last person who saw him alive. 
Because I stood here, close to this writing-table, and 
saw lying upon it, a letter, stamped, and addressed 
to you. We were talking about parish matters, and 
he said, quite suddenly, that there would be changes. 
He did not tell me what those changes would be ; 
but as he spoke I saw him glance at that letter.” 

“ Were there any other letters beside mine?” 

“ There were three other letters. Two were ad- 
dressed to clergymen; one to a tradesman. These 
were found upon this table, just as he had left them, 
but yours was missing. And something else is miss- 
ing too. ” 

“ What is that?” she asked quickly. 

“ The only trinket which he possessed ; that little 
ruby cross which hung round his neck when Mr. 
Lazelle found him. Did he give it to you?” 

“No,” she answered gently. “No.” 

“ I do not think he would have given it to any one 
else,” said Abbott quietly. “What can have be- 
come of it ? I have seen it several times ; it was al- 
ways kept in a small cardboard box in this drawer. ” 

He touched the drawer in the writing-table which 
he had unlocked. The key was in it still. 


A MYSTERY. 309 

Tracy was absorbed in thought. The golden light 
was fading, and changing to gray. 

“Are you sure,” she said at last, “that no one 
came into this room after you left it, till Pascoe 
found him — dead?” 

“As sure as it is possible to be,” he replied. 
When I left him, and went out, he was alone in the 
house with Mrs. Deale, who was dozing in her par- 
lor. Little Hannah, the housemaid, was away; For- 
dyce was in the country ; Pascoe was practising in 
the church. Mrs. Deale always takes her nap in the 
afternoon, but she is a light sleeper, and she would 
have been roused by the opening of the hall door.” 

“ Do you think, then, that he destroyed my letter?” 
asked Tracy, with a thrill of pain in her voice. 

“If he did there are no fragments. to be found. 
And he was not the man to change his intention. He 
did not tell me what that letter contained; but I be- 
lieve I know.” 

“ And you believe that ” 

“ I am sure that he cared for you, Miss Taunton, 
more than for any one in the world. I feel that you 
were made for each other. Soul answered to soul ; 
you were his second self; the spiritual half of him. 
Can one say more than this?” 

“No,” she answered, “you cannot say more. But 
I would have given the world to have had my letter. ” 

“Perhaps I may find it yet,” he said hopefully. 
“ You know that this room will be mine now. It is 
as open to you as to me. Come when you will, and 
let us talk of the things that he would have us do. It 
will comfort us both to carry out any wish of his.” 

She rose, and extended her hand with a gentle, 
grateful gesture. 

“ How you loved him!” she whispered. “I shall 
be happy; have no fear for me. It will be a strange 
kind of happiness, and most people would call it 
by another name. But I would not exchange it for 
any joy that is to be found on earth.” 


3 10 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


She put on her cloak again with that swift grace- 
fulness which characterized all her movements , and 
gave him a gentle good-by. When she was gone 
he still stood in the oriel window, and presently he 
saw the slim black figure going down the garden 
path below. He passed his hand over his eyes. 
How brave she was, and, oh, how lonely ! 

He never thought for a moment of a time when 
another might step into Wilmot Linn’s place in her 
heart. Although he had not known her long, he 
yet knew her too well to dream of such a possibility. 
For himself he was entirely devoted to his work, and 
perfectly heart-free ; and while Tracy Taunton had 
touched his ideal of all that was high and tender in 
woman, she was the last he would have sought for a 
wife. To him she seemed already too near the bor- 
ders of the unseen world to be drawn back by the 
clasp of earthly love. 

He was busy all through the rest of that day; 
ransacking the drawers and boxes which contained 
Wilmot Linn’s few possessions ; but his patient search 
was all in vain. Neither the letter nor the ruby 
cross could anywhere be found. 

It was not until the next morning that he men- 
tioned the missing letter and trinket to Pascoe. 

The young fellow was looking pitiably ill and 
worn. His beautiful face, now utterly devoid of 
color, was more delicate and womanish in its aspect 
than it had ever been before. He seemed so fragile, 
and so incapable of bearing the strain of a great sor- 
row, that John Abbott found it difficult to extract 
the information which he required. Pascoe appeared 
almost incapable of collecting his thoughts at all. 

“ My head gets confused when I try to recall every- 
thing,” he admitted, putting his slender white fin- 
gers up to his forehead. “ When I came upstairs, 
and found him sitting — so silently — in his chair, the 
room was almost dark. I don’t think that I even 


A MYSTERY. 


3” 

glanced at the writing-table. I could think only of 
him.” 

“But the cross,” said Mr. Abbott. “Can you 
throw any light upon its disappearance? I found the 
drawer of the writing-table locked as usual; and I 
took the key from the pocket of the waistcoat he had 
been wearing. The little cardboard box was inside 
the drawer; but it was empty.” 

“ I don’t know anything about it,” rejoined Pascoe 
in a weary voice. “ I believe he showed it to me 
once — a long time ago. And I never saw the letter 
addressed to Miss Taunton. It might have been on 
the table when I came upstairs, or it might not. I 
cannot say.” 

“It must have been there, Pascoe, unless he had 
destroyed it after I left him. There was hardly 
time to have destroyed it, I think. Dear fellow ! he 
died about half an hour after my departure if the 
doctors are right. As I was leaving he complained 
of being excessively tired, and said that perhaps he 
might get a few minutes’ sleep. When I last looked 
at him he was leaning back in the chair, inclined for 
repose. It is not likely that any one came upstairs 
before you did, is it? ” 

Pascoe pressed his hands to his throbbing temples. 
“Oh, my God!” he moaned, “how agonizing all this 
is!” 

“ You must not give way,” said Mr. Abbott kindly. 
“ Try to pull yourself together. We have all suffered 
a loss that will never be made up to us in this world. 
No one realizes this more fully than I do. I would 
gladly have given my life for his dear life; but it 
was not to be so. Now let us do all we can to carry 
out his wishes, and find out what he wanted to have 
done. I am very much concerned about this missing 
letter. ” 

“I wish I could find it.” Pascoe spoke with his 
face buried in his hands. “But I cannot.” 


312 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“ Of course you cannot. But you may do some- 
thing to help me. When one thinks of it the hall 
door really ought not to be left on the latch. Yet 
Mrs. Deale must have heard any one who came in.” 

“She heard me come in,” said Pascoe, rising, and 
beginning to pace the floor with languid strides. 
“And she always keeps her parlor door open in 
winter or summer. ” 

“She has quick ears, too,” Abbott remarked. 
“ Besides, no one would have gone up to the study 
and stolen the letter. The idea is preposterous. Y et 
I can’t think how it disappeared.” 

“ It is a mystery,” said Pascoe. “ Oh, how I wish 
I had been with him when he died!” 

“ I have wished that a thousand times already, ” re- 
sponded Abbott with a sigh. 

Pascoe took another turn, and then sat down again 
wearily. 

“ I am glad now that I am going to leave St. Mon- 
ica’s,” he said. “ How strange that he should have 
got the new appointment for me just at the last! ” 

“ It will be a great rise for you to be organist of St. 
Jerome’s,” Mr. Abbott replied. “But, after all, 
Pascoe, the West End is not very far from the city. 
You will come and look us up sometimes.” 

“Yes, Mr. Abbott, I shall often come. There is 
no doubt, I suppose, that you will be Mr. Linn’s 
successor?” 

“I think there is no doubt,” John Abbott an- 
swered. “The living is not a valuable one; and 
his wish will have an influence.” 


CHAPTER XLII. 


TOILING ON. 

“Known and unknown, human, divine: 

Sweet human hand and lips and eye ; 

Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, 

Mine, mine, forever mine.” 

“Strange friend, past, present, and to be; 

Loved deeplier, darklier understood ; 

Behold I dream a dream of good, 

And mingle all the world with thee. ” 

— Tennyson. 

September had glided away, and October was 
nearly gone. All those who had loved and mourned 
for Wiimot Linn had quietly returned to their 
places and their work in the world. They did not 
forget him ; his voice, gentle and calm, often echoed 
in their ears; his memory had left a fragrance which 
sweetened their common life. 

Up in her lofty studio Tracy toiled early and late, 
bent on winning the gold that was needed to carry 
out Wiimot Linn’s design. There was no one to 
whom she could appeal for help. Mr. McDougall 
might, perhaps, have been moved to give his aid; 
but he was dead. Wiimot had found him broken in 
health, and had prolonged his holiday in Scotland 
that he might spend more time with the invalid. 
He died soon after he received the news of Mr. Linn’s 
death. 

November found John Abbott formally appointed 
vicar of St. Monica’s. In the course of the same 
month Pascoe Rayne was to go to his new post of or- 
ganist in a fashionable church at the West End. 

3 I 3 


314 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

And one day Agatha March came to bring Tracy the 
tidings of her engagement. 

“I am very happy, Miss Taunton,” she said. 
“ And yet the remembrance of Mr. Linn blends with 
all the joy, and never dies out of it. You know how 
he brought us together? Ah, how he loved to see 
love grow !” 

Tracy’s face, usually so quiet and pale, was lit up 
with a faint light. 

“If he could speak to us, Agatha,” she answered, 
“ he would say as the song says — 

“‘Sing no sad songs for me.’ 

I am glad that his memory brightens your glad- 
ness; that is always the best way to be remem- 
bered. And Pascoe, I have been wondering what 
has become of him? He never comes up here to 
see me now.” 

Agatha’s beautiful face, glowing with happiness, 
underwent a slight change. 

“ I suppose he is shy, Miss Taunton, ” she said. “ I 
asked him why he did not go himself to tell you the 
news, and he said that he was afraid of being trouble- 
some.” 

“He ought to know better than that,” remarked 
Tracy, a little hurt. 

“ Yes, he ought,” Agatha confessed. “ Sometimes 
I think he worries himself about poor Marget,” she 
added, knitting her brows thoughtfully. 

“I have not encountered Marget lately,” said 
Tracy, with a sudden, penetrating look. “ Is there 
any change in her?” 

“ She is very strange, Miss Taunton, and seems to 
hate everybody. Pascoe does not care to talk about 
her much ; but I am sure he frets over her peculiari- 
ties. I wanted to be friendly with her, of course; 
but what Can one do when one’s well-meant efforts 
are always repulsed? She is so difficult, you see.” 

“What can one do indeed,” Tracy said, after a 


TOILING ON. 


3*5 


moment’s reflection. “ If one persevered in being 
kind it might only irritate her. Certainly she is hard 
to understand. I hoped our great sorrow might have 
softened her.” 

“ It has made her more morose, I am afraid,” re- 
plied Agatha. “It isn’t pleasant to think of her as 
a sister-in-law. But there must be one little drop of 
bitterness in the cup.” 

“And the cup is very sweet.” Tracy’s eyes were 
bright with sympathy. “ Dear Agatha, how glad I 
am !” 

Agatha kissed her gratefully, and went her way. 
And Tracy, left alone, turned eagerly to her work 
again. 

On the afternoon of the following day she turned 
her steps to the Clergy House, and went upstairs to 
the study. John Abbott was there alone, sitting in 
the old easy-chair by the writing-table, and rose 
gladly to welcome her. Nothing in the room had 
been changed; nothing had been taken away. 
Always living among Wilmot Linn’s possessions, 
always conscious of that undying influence in his life, 
Mr. Abbott was growing more and more like his 
dead friend. His manner, naturally grave, had been 
softened by the touch of sorrow; and to Tracy he was 
very gentle. Tall, and dignified in bearing, he gave 
many people an impression of sternness, and had he 
lived without the daily contact with a perfectly be- 
nevolent nature he might have inclined to severity. 
But Wilmot Linn’s companionship had gently worn 
away the angles of his character ; and although he 
could not acquire that personal magnetism which 
gave Wilmot his peculiar power over hearts, he 
could inspire sincere respect and trust. 

“ I have come to bring some money for the Home 
fund,” said Tracy, putting something into his hand. 

“All this!” he exclaimed in surprise. “Are you 
sure that you don’t work too hard?” 

“ Hard work is the best thing in the world for me,” 


3 l6 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


she answered. “ Lately I have been doing a great 
deal for illustrated journals, the first-class journals, 
you know. They pay well.” 

He looked at her with a kind of sorrowful admi- 
ration. 

“ It is brave in you to remain in your old rooms, 
and labor on among us,” he said after a pause. “ I 
thought at first that you would not be strong enough 
to stay. And yet I know that you are doing wisely. 
All the help that you most need will come to you 
here. ” 

“ It does come to me,” she returned quietly. “ It 
never fails. I think we are all helped by his 
memory. ” 

“ I am sure of it,” John Abbott said. “ It helps me 
every day and every hour. A true man never dies. 
He was so strong, and earnest, and tender, never 
trifling with himself or with others, the most perfect 
Great-heart I have ever known. How good it is to 
have known and loved him !” 

“ I say so often to myself,” she replied in a hushed 
voice. 

She paused, and sank back wearily in the chair, 
and the light fell softly on her delicate, tired face. 

“That letter,” John Abbott said abruptly. “It is 
still a mystery, and it is always on my mind. I have 
searched everywhere, and questioned every one in 
the house. ” 

“ If I could but have had that!” 

She spoke in a low tone; and then suddenly a 
great wave of anguish seemed to break over her and 
sweep her composure away. 

“ Don’t mind me — don’t !” she said after a moment’s 
struggle. “ I do not break down very often ; I have 
so much to do, you know. And things are going on 
very well indeed. He would have been glad about 
Agatha and Pascoe. ” 

“ Yes,” replied John Abbott sadly. “ But I mind 
when I see you suffer; and I feel that the consolation 


TOILING ON. . 317 

you ought to have had is withheld. As to Pascoe, I 
am almost glad that he is going away.” 

“ But you will miss him?” she said. 

“ I shall miss him ; yes,” he answered. “ But he is 
strangely unnerved and unsettled; and he seems 
anxious to leave us. I feel that I don’t know him as 
well as I thought I did.” 

“It seemed so easy to know him,” said Tracy. 
“ He was always so natural and open. But he has not 
been to see me for a long time, and Agatha told me 
yesterday that she thought he was troubled about 
Marget.” 

“ I don’t know why he should be troubled about 
Marget,” Mr. Abbott replied. “ She is a good musi- 
cian, able to earn her own living. I have a letter 
from her, asking to be appointed to the vacant post 
of organist of St. Monica’s.” 

“She has not even a spark of Pascoe’s genius,” 
Tracy remarked. “ Her playing is mechanical ; but 
she is perfectly correct, and very painstaking.” 

“ I suppose I must give her the post,” said the new 
vicar thoughtfully. “ Anyhow I will think over the 
matter. One does not know any harm of the poor 
thing, and she has been industrious. ” 

“Very industrious,” rejoined Tracy. 

She had spoken from her sense of justice; but 
there had been something abrupt in the words which 
had grated upon her as she uttered them. All 
through her life she had honestly wanted to do the 
right thing; but she had always had to struggle with 
her preferences and aversions; they were apt to make 
her unjust. 

As she was coming out of that narrow passage 
which led from the clergy-house into Cannon Street, 
she suddenly encountered Marget herself, walking 
as usual with a music-book under her arm. 

The glances of the two women met, and Tracy 
half stopped, moved by a rush of pity. Marget’sface 
was thinner ; her eyelids were swollen as if with much 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


318 

weeping; she seemed to have shrunk and grown 
smaller, and her clothes hung loosely. But when 
Tracy would have spoken a kind word, the old look 
of bitter malice checked the greeting as it rose to her 
lips. Marget’s nature was not changed ; her hatred 
was implacable. 

Tracy went back to her studio all the sadder for 
that meeting. Here was one of the children of St. 
Monica’s whom Wilmot Linn’s loving influence had 
failed to soften. She could not find any reason for 
Marget’s unconcealed aversion to herself; nor was it 
worth while to seek for any. Jane Shaw, with her 
noiseless step, came in to bring the tea-tray, and light 
the lamps that were placed on the drawing-table. 
Tracy worked diligently until bedtime now; she 
seemed to seize every moment, and turn it to account. 

“ Are you more tired than usual, Miss Tracy?” Jane 
asked. 

“No.” She looked up with a smile. “If I am 
tired the work will rest me. Look at this boy 
leaning against a post. Isn’t he a capital likeness of 
Ben? My dear old Jane, how good of you to be the 
mother of four well-made lads! I don’t know how 
I should get on without them.” 

“They love to be put into your pictures,” Jane 
answered with a little air of maternal pride. “ Thank 
God they’re all proper and tall! If I’m wrong I 
hope I may be forgiven, but I never can abide a 
crooked body. It always seems to me that it must 
hold a crooked soul.” 

The words lingered in Tracy’s mind when Jane 
had left the room, and she was bending over her 
drawing. Marget Rayne’s misshapen figure rose up 
before her again, and she found herself speculating on 
the kind of soul imprisoned in that distorted frame. 
These thoughts disturbed her, and checked the prog- 
ress of her work. 

She threw the pencil down, got up, and began 
slowly to pace the room — the room which always 


TOILING ON. 


319 


seemed so empty now, although not one of its pretty 
decorations had been removed. There was a deep 
easy-chair of wickerwork, cushioned and draped with 
Oriental stuff, in which Wilmot Linn had liked to sit 
and rest; and on a stand close by was a delicate lilac 
vase which she used to fill with violets. 

How she missed him in moments like these when 
troubled thoughts impaired her working power ! Now 
and then in the course of life we hear a voice that 
can still the tempest within us. Surely there was no 
human voice like his, no other tone so tender and 
true. Tracy did not dare to begin to weep ; it would 
have been a relief to shed tears ; but tears are a lux- 
ury that working-women cannot afford. 

She went up to the picture of her knight, and 
stood, as she used to stand years ago, looking earn- 
estly at the calm, grand face. The likeness to that 
other face, now hidden from her eyes, seemed more 
striking than ever to-night. Thoughts of all that 
she had lost, and of all that she had gained, and had 
yet to gain, came thronging into her mind as she 
gazed. Her ideal had been made real for her; it 
was the achievement of a life’s success; a rich gift 
that not even death could take away. 

She turned back to her work again with quiet 
patience, and the figures began to grow under her 
pencil. But once she paused, and murmured half 
aloud in the stillness of the room : “ If I could but 
have had my letter!” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


WHAT PASCOE TOLD. 

“A tide of fierce 

Invective seem’d to wait behind her lips, 

As waits a river level with the dam 

Ready to burst and flood the world with foam.” 

— Tennvson. 


“ If I could but have had my letter! ” 

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Tracy 
would wake up from a dream, and fancy that she 
was clasping her letter at last. And then she would 
find her hands empty, and the old helpless longing 
would begin again — that longing which wears out 
so many hearts, and is at the root of so many name- 
less maladies. Just to see Wilmot Linn once more, 
just to know from his very self all which that 
vanished letter had contained! In spite of prayer, 
and faith, and patience, this passionate outcry of poor 
humanity refused to be hushed; it went on within 
her night after night, and day after day. 

A week had gone by since her conversation with 
John Abbott. Pascoe had already removed most of 
his belongings to his new lodging in the West End ; 
and every one was talking of Marget as his probable 
successor as organist of St. Monica’s. Mr. Abbott, 
however, had not quite decided on her appointment; 
he wished to be sure that she was duly qualified for 
the post ; and it was understood that she was to take 
her brother’s place for a time before being engaged 
permanently. 

It was twelve o’clock on a sunshiny morning at the 
end of November; and Tracy, who had been work- 
320 


WHAT PASCOE TOLD. 


321 


in g hard after early breakfast, had just risen from 
her seat. The sunshine tempted her out of doors; 
she was tired with the long strain of incessant toil, 
and felt the need of air and exercise. 

Going to the door of the studio, she was startled 
by a quick, eager knock; and in another moment 
Pascoe Rayne stood before her. 

The first thought that flashed into her mind was 
that something had happened; her second that noth- 
ing important could ever happen any more. The 
one great anguish which had come upon her had done 
her this kindness, it had made it impossible that she 
could ever be stricken down again. 

“ You are come at last, Pascoe,” she said, greeting 
him a little coldly. 

“At last, Miss Taunton,” he repeated. “No, I 
won’t sit down, thank you. I’d rather stand. ” 

Certainly something had happened, thought Tracy, 
seating herself with an air of languid expectation. 
And then as she glanced at the young fellow’s wan 
face a sudden feeling of compassion stirred within 
her. The noon light fell full upon him, white and 
ghastly, standing near one of the windows, and look- 
ing like the ghost of the beautiful, hopeful Pascoe 
of a few months ago. 

“ You are not well, ” she said kindly. “ The excite- 
ment of change has been too much for you.” 

“ Not that,” he answered. “ I am glad to go away 
from St. Monica’s — glad to turn my back on the 
home in which I have spent so many happy years. 
I dare say I surprise you,” added poor Pascoe with 
trembling lips. “You will think I am going mad.” 

“No,” Tracy replied quietly. “You are over- 
wrought, that is all. I am very sorry for you.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” he went on excitedly. “When 
you have heard me to the end, my very name will be 
hateful to you! I ought to have told you sooner ; my 
wretched cowardice struck me dumb!” 

A vague glimmer of the revelation that was com- 


3 22 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


in g began to dawn upon her intelligence. She sat 
still, passive, silent, as if she had been turned into 
stone. 

“The letter!” he gasped out, after a moment’s 
pause. “ The letter that Mr. Linn wrote to you just 
before he died ! It was Marget who stole it — Mar- 
get, my poor, miserable little sister, and I have been 
hiding the truth for her sake. But the secret was 
killing me; I could not carry the burden on my 
conscience any longer. I was never strong, Miss 
Taunton ; and it was awful to deceive everybody — 
even Agatha.” 

“Yes,” said Tracy, with a terrible calmness; 
“ yes, it must have been awful. But now that you 
have begun you must go on, you know. How did 
she do it?” 

“ She was never quite like other people,” he con- 
tinued piteously. “ She idolized Mr. Linn in a mad 
fashion of her own; and her passion grew into a sort 
of mania. Indeed, I did all I could to check it ; but 
she would never listen to one word of reason. And 
when you came she — hated you.” 

Tracy’s pale lips were curved by a bitter little 
smile. 

“Oh, yes,” she said, “the hatred was quite evi- 
dent. But the theft — I want to know about that.” 

“ It must have been about six o’clock, on the day of 
Mr. Linn’s death, when Marget acted on a mad im- 
pulse,” continued Pascoe, making a strong effort to 
tell his story clearly. “ She had been working her- 
self into a frenzy for hours; and she resolved, all at 
once, to seek an interview with him, and tell him all 
her misery. Don’t think that I am trying to excuse 
her folly; I only say that she never was like other 
girls, that she did not restrain herself.” 

Tracy moved her head slightly, but did not speak. 

“When she reached the clergy-house she tried the 
inner door softly, and found that it w&s not bolted ; 
and then she opened it and crept in. Marget can be 


WHAT PASCOE TOLD. 


323 


as noiseless as a cat when she likes, and she stole up 
to the study without being heard. ” 

Pascoe did not look at Tracy, ye£ he knew that her 
slight frame was quivering like a leaf, and her hands 
were clasped tightly in her lap. 

“You know how she found him,” he said tremu- 
lously. “ God only can tell what evil courage pos- 
sessed her when she saw the letter addressed to you. 
I think at that moment she was mad — really mad! 
She fled from the room, flew downstairs, and escaped 
without being heard or seen.” 

Coldly, articulately, came Tracy’s next question; 
a spot of hectic color starting on each pale cheek as 
she spoke. 

“When did she tell you all this?” she demanded. 

“ On that very evening. I was distracted, and 
went to her room to tell her the dreadful news. Then 
I found her lying on the floor and moaning ; and when 
I raised her up, she said: ‘I know it, I have seen 
him — I know it all. ’ ” 

“ And the letter?” said Tracy, bending forward, a 
glitter that boded no good coming into her eyes. 

“Ah, Miss Taunton, I knew nothing about the 
letter then! Later on, when Mr. Abbott had been 
searching, and making inquiries, I asked Marget 
what had become of it? And she answered me with 
a burst of rage. She told me that she had stolen it, 
and destroyed it. ” 

“She destroyed it! And you have dared to come 
and tell me this I” 

Was it really Tracy who stood there, an incarna- 
tion of fury, with white face and flashing eyes? She 
had risen from her seat, and was standing full in the 
light; her slight figure looked almost tall; her gaze 
seemed to scorch Pascoe, and he shrank away from 
her, trembling and pale. 

“ JVhat was I to do? ” he asked plaintively. “ I 
could not carry the dreadful secret any longer. I 
have been weak, I know. I ought to have spoken 


324 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


out at once ; but poor Marge t was always so Grange ! 
She must have been mad — quite mad.” 

“Mad!” Tracy Repeated scornfully. 

“O Miss Taunton, do not be hard on me!” Pas- 
coe lifted his hands imploringly. “ Of course you 
will tell Mr. Abbott — I know how it will end — and 
she has lost her chance of being organist of St. Mon- 
ica’s. I must provide a home for her elsewhere. 
But please do not think that I could ever have been 
false to Mr. Linn, or to you. My life has been one 
long agony since he died. ” 

“ Do you know what was in the letter that she 
stole? Did she tell you that?” Tracy hissed out the 
words. 

“ She never told me what was in the letter,” said 
Pascoe, solemnly. “ I would have given anything — 
anything — if I could have placed it safe in your 
hands. When I charged her with the theft she owned 
it in a burst of passion. You may as well reason 
with a whirlwind as with Marget.” 

“ I shall not give myself the trouble of reason- 
ing with her,” replied Tracy, with ineffable scorn. 
“ She is a thief, and she shall have the justice usually 
meted out to thieves. Have you said all that there 
is to say?” 

He bowed his head resignedly. 

“ Then you may go,” she said, dismissing him with 
a little wave of the hand. And in another moment 
she was alone. 

Alone? At first it seemed as if the empty room 
were full of confused noises; and then came silence. 
Tracy sank into a chair, and hid her face in her hands. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


A VICTORY. 

“ Shalt thou not teach me in that calmer home 
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this — 

The wisdom which is love — till I become 
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss ?” 

— W. C. Bryant. 

Looking back afterward on the experiences of 
that terrible morning Tracy had a vague remem- 
brance of trying to be composed and take something 
for luncheon. 

She succeeded in hiding her excitement better than 
she knew. Jane Shaw thought her looking more 
tired and exhausted than usual ; that was all. But 
to Tracy it seemed as if the whole world must read 
Pascoe’s story written on her face. 

When the meal was over she went to her room and 
bathed her aching forehead with cold water. She 
meant to go straight to the clergy-house, and tell 
everything to John Abbott; but she wanted to relate 
the tale with clearness and precision. How her 
hands trembled as she tried to fasten her cloak! 
How drawn and white her face was as it confronted 
her in the glass ! This storm of passion, raging with- 
in her, was wearing out the frail body, and destroying 
the small strength that she possessed. But not for 
one instant did she waver in her resolution; with all 
her old power of will she forced the weak hands to 
do their work, and put on, with even more care than 
usual, the soft little black bonnet that she always 
wore. 

Her heart began to beat a little more calmly when 

325 


3 2 6 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


she found herself out 7 of-doors. The fresh air had a 
soothing influence. It was one of those days of beau- 
tiful autumn sunshine which often come to us with 
the last breath of the year — a day of soft colors and 
mellow lights, tranquil and hushed and sweet. 
Even in the turmoil of London Tracy could fancy 
how calm the hills looked around Ferngate, and how 
the shadows slept in the garden path of her old home. 

The clergy-house was not quite so easily entered 
nowadays; the new vicar had given orders that the 
inner door should always be bolted. Mrs. Deale, 
whose rosy face had shrivelled up like an old apple, 
appeared at the little window, and admitted Tracy 
with a ready smile. 

“Fine weather for November, Miss Taunton, isn’t 
it?” she said. “ But we shall have winter upon us 
all of a minute ; and here we shall be with our coughs 
and colds and rheumatics, just the same as ever. 
There’s no trusting the pleasant things of this world,” 
added the housekeeper piously, “sunshine least of 
all.” 

“That’s rather a dismal doctrine, Mrs. Deale,” re- 
marked Tracy, as she entered. “Anyhow we will 
make the most of the brightness while it lasts. Is 
Mr. Abbott at home?” 

“ He went out a few minutes ago,” the old woman 
replied. “ But he said he should be back soon; and 
he’s always ready for an early cup of tea, Mr. Ab- 
bott is. Mr. Linn used to take his tea anywhere be- 
tween four and five ; but the new vicar is a deal more 
regular in that respect. Dear me, Miss Taunton, it’s 
a changed world since Mr. Linn went out of it! Mr. 
Abbott is a dear good man, and does his best for 
everybody; but Mr. Linn could lift you up with a 
look or a word. It seems to me that if there are any 
folks that we particularly want to keep with us, the 
Lord always calls ’em away. It’s the everlasting 
bores and troublers and grumblers that stick to the 
earth, like limpets to a rock!” 


A VICTORY. 


327 


The flood of eloquence ceased as Tracy slowly as- 
cended the dark stairs to the study. She was glad to 
get out of the sound of the monotonous old voice, 
telling such commonplace truths as we all know too 
well. 

The easy-chair stood in its old place in front of the 
writing-table, and she sat down to wait for John Ab- 
bott’s return. 

The quietness here was scarcely broken by the 
muffled roar of Cannon Street; and sometimes the 
shrill twitter of sparrows could be heard outside the 
oriel window. She leaned back in the chair, and 
looked absently at the books and papers neatly ar- 
ranged on the table. Wilmot Linn’s Bible was 
there, and the Prayer Book that he had been accus- 
tomed to use. She drew the volumes toward her, 
and turned over the well-worn pages; but the tears 
did not gather in her eyes, her heart was still so hot 
with anger that she could not weep. Other books 
were on the table, too ; one or two of his favorite 
poets had always been given places there; and John 
Abbott had changed nothing. 

Tracy laid down the Bible with a sudden move- 
ment of impatience. How was it possible to sit 
alone in this room without calling up a vision of the 
thief who had .crept in, and stolen her letter in the 
very presence of the dead? Why did not some 
mighty force smite Marget at that moment? What 
help was there in a God who permitted such deeds to 
be done? Surely He who could send, if he willed, 
a host of angels, was strangely unmindful of the in- 
terests of his children. 

And Wilmot Linn? Could his spirit, set free from 
the bonds of mortality, regard all that once concerned 
him with indifference? Was it nothing to him now 
that she was deprived of the very thing that would 
have given her the best comfort? This silence, this 
helpless silence, how cruel and hard it was! 

There was only one thought which could kindle a 


328 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

glow of evil pleasure in her heart. It was in her 
power to take swift and certain vengeance on Marget 
Rayne ; and she would do it. 

That vengeance would fall all the heavier on the 
wretched culprit because it was an unexpected blow. 
Tracy could read Pascoe’s character aright. She 
was sure that he would not yet dare to tell his sister 
that he had betrayed her secret. He had rushed 
out of the studio that morning to hide himself in 
solitude. The agony of making his confession had 
left him exhausted in body and tortured in mind. 
But Tracy could recall the look of misery on his 
white face without the faintest pang of pity. She 
could only remember now that he was Marget’s 
brother, and that he had hidden her guilt for three 
long months. 

And Marget, having enjoyed her malice to the full, 
was waiting contentedly for her appointment as or- 
ganist of St. Monica’s. 

The timepiece on the mantel-shelf was ticking 
the moments away, and John Abbott did not come. 
Tracy longed, with an intense and cruel longing, to 
hear his footstep on the stairs. Every minute seemed 
an hour till her story was told. She knew just how 
he would look while he was listening to the tale that 
she had to tell. She could see, in fancy, the stern 
lines deepening round his mouth, and the grim reso- 
lution expressed in every feature of his grave face. 
John Abbott was a just man and a true. She had no 
fear that, in this case, he would be over-lenient. 
No; justice would be done. 

Ay, and it should be done for Wilmot Linn’s sake 
as well as hers. The thief had sinned against them 
both. Tracy did not spring up from her seat as she 
would have done in the days of her passionate child- 
hood; she sat perfectly still as she pondered over 
her revenge ; but — 


“Her eyes were a soul on fire. 


A VICTORY. 


329 


How monotonously the clock ticked on ! Her ears 
were strained to catch the lightest sound of a foot- 
step ; but none came ; there was nothing to break the 
silence of the house in the still hours of the afternoon. 
Her impatience was becoming intense; this delay 
seemed to fan the desire of vengeance into a fiercer 
flame. 

Her gaze had been resting absently on a bronze 
paper-weight upon the table; it was a curiously 
wrought piece of metal, representing a barred hel- 
met, and she began to wonder vaguely if she had 
ever noticed it before. Then a very faint breath of 
chill air passed over her forehead, and she looked up 
quickly to see whence it came. 

“Oh,” she said softly, “is it really you?” 

Yes; it was Wilmot Linn, standing on the other 
side of the table, in the soft light that came through 
the oriel window. He looked at her very quietly, 
with the steadfast glance that she remembered so 
well. It was a look of affection and authority that 
shone out of the deep-set eyes, and on the calm face 
there was a faint approach to a smile. 

“I have suffered — suffered,” she said, with a lit- 
tle sob. “ Your letter to me — do you know that she 
stole it?” 

He gently bowed his head. 

“ I have suffered,” she repeated, “ more than words 
can say. And now ” * 

“ You must forgive her.” 

“That is too hard — too hard,” she said, clasping 
her hands. “ Have you no feeling for me? Have 
you no love for me?” 

Her voice was low, with a ring of passionate ap- 
peal in it. 

“ I have no love for the evil that is in you. ” There 
was not the faintest note of sternness in the quiet 
tone, but its gentleness was inexorable. “It is 
your enemy ; and I tell you to destroy it before it 
conquers you. The victory is in your own hands. 


330 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

If you lose it, you wrong the best and highest part 
of yourself. Do you not understand this?” 

She was silent, but she trembled at the words. 

“ I have no new commandment to give to you,” he 
went on. “ I only remind you that all souls belong 
to God — even the soul that you hate and despise. It 
is that hatred that you must crush out of yourself, 
and overcome by love. There is love enough in 
your soul to rise and conquer hate if you will but 
call it up. Fight this good fight ; fight it with all 
your will and all your strength, and you shall do 
greater things yet. Do -you shrink from this con- 
flict? Think that the time is short, and the strug- 
gle will last but a very little while.” 

Her face seemed at that moment to reflect the 
light on his. 

“A little while,” she echoed, “a very little while! 
Yet it seems so tedious to me. To you it is noth- 
ing; but tell me — how long must I stay here? When 
shall I be set free?” 

“ I cannot tell you ; it is not well for you to 
know. Look up, and work, and be true to your- 
self; and the hour that you long for will come when 
you think not.” 

“And you?” 

Unconsciously she stretched out her hands to him 
with a quiver of entreaty in her voice. Those two 
short words contained the intense yearning of the 
spirit in its loneliness; and they were understood 
and answered. 

“When that hour comes you shall see me again.” 

He had not replied with any responsive gesture. 
He had stood quietly in the light of the window, 
but voice and eyes were eloquent with an indescrib- 
able tenderness which satisfied her deepest need. 
In that instant her cup was filled to the brim. She 
drew a long breath of contentment; then a sigh 
which seemed to vibrate softly through the room 
echoed hers ; and he was gone. 


A VICTORY. 


331 


The afternoon was fading into evening, and yet 
John Abbott did not come. She looked round the 
study ; the door was closed, every article was in its 
accustomed place; the olive-green curtains of the 
oriel-window hung in their usual straight folds. 
There was no trace of the visitant who had come and 
talked with her a few moments ago; but he had been 
here, and she had spoken with him face to face. 

According to the generally received notions, she 
ought to have been frightened or ill. But she was 
feeling calm and well as she sat in the old arm- 
chair; there was no fear, and no confusion in her 
mind at all. It had seemed a perfectly natural thing 
that Wilmot Linn should come and talk to her. 
How he had come, and how he had gone, she knew 
not; nor was she even anxious to know. Had her 
inner eyes been opened that she could see? 

For a few minutes she sat motionless, deeply con- 
scious of an influx of quietness and strength. The 
sense of peace overflowed the passionate trouble 
which had brought her here. It seemed to be an 
easy thing now to forgive that great wrong. 

She sat upright, drew pen and ink toward her, and 
opened a blotting-book which lay upon the table. 
Then she wrote a few words on a sheet of note-paper. 

“ My dear Mr. Abbott: — I hope you will decide 
on appointing Marget Rayne to the post of organist. 
She will fill it far better than a stranger; she loves 
the organ, and knows it as a familiar friend. I 
feel that Wilmot Linn would approve of her appoint- 
ment; and no one can wish it more earnestly than 
I do. 

“ Ever yours sincerely, 

“Tracy Taunton.” 

She did not fold her note, but left it lying in the 
open blotting-book, so that John Abbott’s eyes might 
fall upon it as soon as he came in. 


332 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


With one more glance round the room she went to 
the door, opened it, and walked quietly downstairs. 

Mrs. Deale heard her step, and came out of her 
little parlor. 

“So you’re tired of waiting for the vicar, Miss 
Taunton,” she said. “It’s a pity that he hasn’t 
come in; and I’m sorry that your' time was wasted. 
Shall I give him a message?” 

“No, thank you,” Tracy answered cheerfully. 
“ I have written all that I wanted to say. Good-by, 
Mrs. Deale.” 

There was still something else to be done. She 
hurried out into the busy street, looking up to see 
the last faint glow of gold in the darkening sky 
above the roofs. The day was dying in peace; 
scarcely a breath of wind stirred the folds of her 
black cloak as she crossed the street, and turned 
her steps in the direction of St. Monica’s Home. 

Agatha March herself opened the door, and Tracy 
was instantly struck by the expression of her beauti- 
ful face. Something had dimmed the brightness; 
the rich bloom had paled a little, and the lips were 
pressed closely together. The old frank joyousness 
was gone. 

“Dear Agatha,” Tracy said, “I can see that you 
are sad.” 


CHAPTER XLV. 


LIFE-WORK. 

“God is in all that liberates and lifts, 

In all that humbles, sweetens, and consoles. ” 

— Lowell. 

“Yes, I am a little sad,” admitted Agatha. 

She led the way through the narrow passage into 
the small room in which Tracy had seen her first 
As usual there were piles of garments on the table 
and shelves, for Agatha’s duties had not decreased, 
and she loved work for its own sake. She took both 
Tracy’s hands and drew her toward the fire, still 
holding them. 

“You are troubled about Pascoe,” Tracy said; 
“ but the cloud will pass. I have come to set your 
mind at rest. When did you see him last?” 

“ He was here last night for a few minutes,” Aga- 
tha replied. “ And I have never seen him so strange, 
so unlike himself.” 

She smiled faintly, meeting her friend’s kind eyes. 

“You think that I fancy things,” she said. “ But 
I am not fanciful. Don’t look at me! I am not 
pretty to-day; anxiety makes one quite plain.” 

“ It would take a vast amount of anxiety to make 
you plain!” Tracy laughed gently as she spoke. 
“And I must look at you; I have come on purpose 
to look and talk.” 

“ Do you know, you look happy. Miss Taunton, ” 
exclaimed Agatha suddenly. “ Not excitedly happy ; 
but calmly content, as if you were at peace with all 
the world. ” 


333 


334 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“I ought to be at peace,” Tracy answered. “I 
have a deep sense of blessedness. Now let us talk 
about Pascoe — did he tell you that he was coming 
to see me?” 

“ Yes, he said that he should call on you this morn- 
ing. Did he come?” 

“ He did.” 

Agatha bent forward and involuntarily laid her 
hand on Tracy’s arm. 

“ Is there a secret?” she asked. “ If there is, I am 
sure that it concerns Marget. ” 

“ There is a secret, Agatha, and it does concern 
Marget. Do not seek to know it; don’t ask ques- 
tions of Pascoe. He has been worried and dis- 
tressed, and it will not do him any good to talk 
about his trouble. But it will pass away like a 
cloud.” 

“Are .you certain of that, Miss Taunton?” 

“ Quite certain. Tell me where he is living now, 
Agatha. I shall write to him to-night. ” 

“And your letter will comfort him? What a won- 
derful woman you are ! Indeed, Miss Taunton, you 
are very good. ” 

A shade rested on Tracy’s face for an instant; her 
eyes looked deep and dark in the firelight. 

“No,” she answered, “I am not good. I want to 
be — I will try to be. Agatha, you must have pati- 
ence with Marget; you must remember that she is 
not like other women who are happy and beautiful, 
and made to be loved.” 

“I will remember it,” said Agatha, “in days to 
come.” She spoke almost solemnly. It was as if a 
wave of deep feeling had passed from Tracy’s heart 
to her own. She took a pencil and paper from a 
drawer in the table, and wrote Pascoe’s address. 

“Good-by,” said Tracy, kissing her. “When 
you see Pascoe again you will not complain of his . 
depression. I am going now.” . It was almost dark 
out-of-doors; but when she entered her studio she 


LIFE-WORK. 


335 


was greeted with warmth and light. It seemed to 
her, for a moment, as if a familiar figure must be 
seated in the deep arm-chair, waiting for her com- 
ing, and ready to give her a welcome. But, although 
the room was empty, her heart was full of hope and 
rest. She sat down to write -the letter to Pascoe at 
once; and when that was done she turned to her 
drawing-table, devoted herself to her work. 

There was no time wasted in revery; but while she 
worked her thoughts were busy. Was it in a dream 
that she had seen Wilmot Linn, and heard him 
speak? Ah, what did it matter? Spirit had met 
spirit, whether in the body or out of the body she 
could not tell. 

It was enough for her to know that there had been 
this meeting for which she had prayed so long. It 
was enough for her to know that she had his promise 
of another meeting, which would not be followed by 
another parting. There would be no excuse for her 
now if she failed in her task, and allowed herself to 
be conquered in the fight. 

That night she went quietly to sleep, untroubled 
by any desire for revenge, undisturbed by any 
searchings of heart. 

The morning found her happy and tranquil ; and 
as she sat at breakfast she thought of Pascoe, read- 
ing the letter which she had written on the preced- 
ing evening. The hours passed quickly ; Jane noticed 
the brightness in her look, and the cheerful ring in 
her voice. About noon, Agatha made her appear- 
ance in the studio. 

Her face had recovered all its vanished light and 
bloom; it glowed in the dark setting of the simple 
bonnet worn by the children of the Home. The 
richness of her beauty was so striking that Tracy 
looked at her for a moment in silent delight. 

“Did you expect me?” the girl asked. “Ah, 
Miss Taunton, you knew that Pascoe would come to 
me this morning! He is himself again, just the 


33 6 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


dear open-hearted Pascoe of old da) r s. And I am so 
happy.” 

“ It is all well,” said Tracy with a smile. “ Don’t 
begin to thank me,” she added, lifting up a warning 
hand. “ I do not deserve any gratitude. Did he tell 
you why he was so different?” 

“No; he merely said that he had been suffering 
from a dreadful attack of low spirits. Of course I 
asked no questions. Marget was the cause of his 
trouble ; I have felt that from the first. ” 

Tracy was silent. 

“ Do you know, Miss Taunton,” Agatha went on, 
“that Marget will get her heart’s desire? She is to 
be appointed organist of St. Monica’s. On his way 
to me this morning Pascoe met Mr. Abbott, and 
heard the news from his own lips. ” 

Tracy’s eyes were shining with a steady lustre 
under the thick black fringes. “I am glad,” she 
said simply. 

“ It is your doing, ” Agatha exclaimed. “ The vic- 
ar told Pascoe that a note from you had settled the 
question. You pity Marget, and you want to make 
her happy.” 

“ It will be all the better for you and Pascoe if she 
is happy,” said Tracy. “Now I think she will be 
less dissatisfied and restless. What does Pascoe 
say?” 

“ He cannot put his gratitude into words. He said 
that you were the best friend that he had on earth. 
Miss Taunton, I must go now; you will not let me 
express all that I feel, but I know we owe our happi- 
ness to you.” 

Tracy sat quite still for a few minutes after the 
girl’s departure. Everything would be right; Aga- 
tha and Pascoe would be happy. This was what 
Wilmot Linn had wished — what he had intended 
from the firsts- when he had brought them together. 
It was he who had brought them together; and this 
was the plan he had had in his mind when he had 


LIFE-WORK. 


337 


done it. With that intuition which was one of his best 
gifts he had seen that they were fit for each other. 

If Tracy had carried out her revenge on Marget 
these two loving young hearts would have been 
darkened and saddened. One can very seldom pun- 
ish a sinner without hurting those who stand nearest 
to him. If only for the sake of Pascoe and Agatha 
it was right to spare Marget Rayne. 

But the desire of vengeance had quite died out of 
her heart. The conflict within her was ended; it 
would never have to be fought over again. She 
could look placidly now at what seemed Marget’s 
triumph and her own defeat. 

She could bear to go Sunday after Sunday to the 
old church, and listen to the music which was awak- 
ened by the hands of her enemy. She could encoun- 
ter Marget in her walks without feeling any anger 
at the glance of the malicious eyes. She could smile 
kindly when Marget scowled. Her foe Jiad lost all 
power to hurt her; it was only while there was 
wrath and bitterness in her own heart that Marget 
could do her harm. Nothing in their lives was 
really changed, and yet everything was different. 
Tracy had caught so clear a glimpse of the higher 
destiny that awaited her that the troubles of this 
present life seemed mere trifles. The hope of rest 
had become a certainty ; there was no more doubt, 
all was peace. 

Sometimes during the winter, when she paused 
in her life-work, she felt astonished at the progress 
she had made. The fund in John Abbott’s hands 
was steadily increasing. The new picture, which 
she was painting for the Royal Academy, bade fair 
to sustain the high reputation which had been won 
by the first. Her hands were full ; work was pressed 
on her from all quarters; her strength seemed equal 
to all that she undertook. In calm of mind, and 
with a new and tranquil consciousness of power, she 
was accomplishing the task set before her. 

22 


338 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


People who belonged to the fashionable world made 
many attempts to draw her out of her retirement; 
but Tracy resolutely held herself aloof from so- 
ciety. To live in Vanity Fair was to lose one’s indi- 
viduality, and become merged in a mass of dresses 
and smiles. Moreover, she wanted to live cheaply, 
to wear plain clothes, and enjoy that perfect free- 
dom from irritating restraint which is so necessary 
to the steady rise of all artists. The work that she 
had set herself to do demanded all her energies, all 
her time, and all her heart. 

Books were almost her only luxuries in these days. 
She enjoyed her walks and omnibus rides to Mudie’s, 
and always contrived that John Abbott should read 
anything that was particularly striking. The fra- 
ternal feeling between the vicar and herself seemed 
to strengthen as time went on. She helped him in 
his work more than any one guessed. To her he 
brought the worries and difficulties inseparable from 
his life and calling, and found that her counsel and 
sympathy never failed 

To the children of St. Monica’s she was a kind of 
elder sister, ready to settle disputes and listen to 
troubles that would have wearied any one less free 
of heart. She never knew how much was really 
accomplished at this time, never realized how faith- 
ful her service was, nor how rich the harvest would 
be. She just worked on, trying humbly to complete 
some of Wilmot Linn’s unfinished labor; unconscious 
how lavishly she gave, how ceaselessly she wrought. 
And so the months glided away. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 


GOING TO SANDYSTONE. 

“O ye who have your eyeballs vexed and tired, 

Feast them upon the wideness of the sea!” 

— Keats. 

“ So that little Miss Taunton has become quite 
famous!” 

Tracy overheard the sentence, and smiled. She 
had accompanied Agatha and Pascoe to the Royal 
Academy; they had gone through the rooms, and 
were coming out with the crowd. There was a 
crush and a pause, and all three caught the words. 
The speaker was a withered old lady with an anxious 
look about the eyes; and something familiar in her 
face and voice sent Tracy’s thoughts wandering 
back into the past. 

“Miss Taunton!” she heard another feminine 
voice say. “ Did I ever meet her anywhere, I won- 
der?” 

“ Perhaps you saw her at Woodcourt, years ago,” 
the first speaker replied. “ There was a little affair 
between her and Sir Alfred Montjoy before he mar- 
ried Grace. His mother was scarcely civil to the 
poor girl ; it was really too bad, for she was quite 
an inoffensive little thing.” 

“Ah, really! But then, you know, Mrs. Endon, 
that old Lady Montjoy can be terrific.” 

“Yes; I wonder that Grace gets on as well with 
her as she does. By the way, I must tell Grace to 
look at that lovely picture; she rather liked Miss 
Taunton when she met her at the Court. ” 

339 


340 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

The crowd swept on, and Tracy looked at her 
companion with smiling eyes. It was pleasant to 
escape from the throng, and come out into the fresh 
air and sunshine of May. 

“Well,” said Agatha, turning suddenly to her 
friend, with a little burst of enthusiasm, “ it is a 
splendid thing to be famous. ” 

“ It is a splendid thing to be loved, ” responded 
Tracy in her sweet, quiet voice. “ Love is the best 
thing in the world, Agatha ; be sure of that. 

“ 1 The palm stands upright in a world of sand. ’ 

Fame often isolates ; it often leaves a woman stand- 
ing alone in a desert which no one cares to cross so 
.as to get quite near to her. When you are happily 
absorbed in your home-life, dear, you will never 
give a single envious thought to a celebrity. ” 

Many people glanced, that day, at the young 
couple who walked side by side. They were so 
happy and so beautiful together: Pascoe, with his 
saintly face and large blue eyes ; Agatha, wearing 
her serge uniform as usual, and glowing richly like 
a rose. Life had given them its choicest gifts ; on 
their faces there rested the glory and bloom of love 
and youth. And you knew, when you looked at 
them, that the glory would remain long after the 
bloom had fled. 

Tracy drew a long breath of satisfaction. When 
she was with these two she felt as if she stood in the 
midst of a fair garden, and watched the blossoms 
opening to the sun. They had nearly reached the 
outer portals of Burlington House when they saw 
John Abbott advancing with a companion. 

“This is a fortunate meeting,” the vicar said, 
greeting Tracy joyfully. “ Mr. Kerne wishes to be 
introduced to you.” 

Mr. Kerne had his wish, and the introduction took 
place. He was a tall man, very lean and dark, with 
an eager, inquiring expression, and a nose that had 


GOING TO SANDYSTONE. 


341 


a decided touch of the beak. The bright hazel eyes, 
looking out from under heavy brows, were keen, but 
frank and kind ; they were good eyes, and spoke well 
for their owner. 

“ It is a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Taunton,” 
he said. “ I have just come home from the wilds, 
and it does a man good to look at a picture like 
yours when he has been living the life of a bush- 
ranger. Abbott and I were boys together.” 

“ And we never expected to see each other again,” 
John Abbott remarked. “Life has been kind to us 
both. ” 

“I shall turn up at St. Monica’s on Sundays,” 
Kerne went on. “ People say it’s easy to make 
friends everywhere; but I never felt the need of 
friendly faces as I did when I landed in England. 
It’s sadder to come back to an old world where all 
is changed than to go to a new one.” 

“ You will be welcomed in our little corner of the 
old world,” Tracy said kindly. “We have quaint, 
old-fashioned ways, and cling to old customs still.” 

Kerne’s keen eyes rested on the artist with a 
depth of approval which Pascoe and Agatha ob- 
served. To-day she was looking like the Tracy 
Taunton of old times. To please the young people 
who loved her she had laid aside black, and put 
on one of those soft gray gowns which Wilmot Linn 
had liked so well. A white frilled kerchief of deli- 
cate muslin was knotted at her breast, and fastened 
loosely with a bunch of violets. Fragile as she was, 
worn with deep sorrow and incessant labor, the old 
charm lingered about Tracy still. 

Next Sunday found Horace Kerne at St. Moni- 
ca’s, and John Abbott brightened under the influ- 
ence of his old playfellow. Sometimes Kerne 
dragged him away from parish work, and took him 
for a walk through green lanes, talking of old days 
when they had gone birds’ -nesting or nutting to- 
gether. And Tracy, grateful for all the good that 


342 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


was done to the over-worked vicar, smiled kindly 
on Horace Kerne, and allowed him to come, now 
and then, to the studio. 

So the bright summer days stole away, and Lon- 
don began to be slowly emptied of its richest inhabi- 
tants. White-faced women faded and fainted in 
courts and by-streets; pallid children ran about half 
naked, and clustered in sickly groups round the drink- 
ing-fountains; the odors from the fruiterers’ and 
green-grocers’ shops were bad to smell. And when 
July was near its end, Tracy bethought her of an 
old farm-house scarcely a mile away from the 
lonely fishing- village of Sandystone. 

The Dawleys had sent her the usual summer invi- 
tation, but she was not strong enough to bear Laura’s 
prattle now. She could not yet endure the sight of 
the pretty white room where she had dreamed her 
last dreams of earthly bliss. No; she must seek 
fresh scenes, and strengthen herself for the work that 
she had to do; and those who knew her and loved 
her best approved of her decision. 

It was arranged that she go alone, and that Jane 
Shaw should follow her later on. And so it came 
to pass that, after a journey of several weary hours, 
Tracy found herself resting, one evening, in a long, 
low room, and looking out through open lattices at a 
red sunset. 

The house stood in a sheltered spot, and the warm 
slope of the garden came up close to the windows. 
Sweet old-fashioned perfumes were floating into the 
room ; mint and marjoram, sage and thyme grew and 
flourished abundantly; narrow paths went winding 
in and out among gooseberry bushes; flowers 
bloomed luxuriantly in unexpected spots ; and fruit 
trees started up here and there. It was a garden 
which seemed to have no beginning and no end. 
But Tracy was charmed with its pretty confusion, 
and drank in deep breaths of fresh, scented air as the 
sun went down. 


GOING TO SANDYSTONE. 


343 


She went to sleep that night in a bed-chamber 
that was long and low like the room downstairs. 
The house was only two stories high ; but from the 
upper windows you commanded a view of blue 
water shining beyond the green meadows; and it 
was this first sight of the sea which gladdened Tracy’ 
eyes when she awoke. 

She rose refreshed after unbroken sleep, and set 
out for the shore as soon as breakfast was over, fol- 
lowing a narrow footpath across the fields, and com- 
ing to a piece of waste land, sandy and barren, where 
a lonely cottage was standing. A little farther on 
she came suddenly to the smooth yellow sands, 
strewn with low rocks, and found the sleepy sea 
running up quietly, almost to her feet. 

Still farther on, and the character of the scene was 
changed; the water dashed and foamed around the 
gray and black bowlders, standing Tip rugged and 
stern ; the coast was wild and grand, and the black- 
edged rocks cut sharply against a sky of purest blue. 
Tracy sat down to rest upon a convenient slab of 
granite; but got up presently to look deep into one 
of the neighboring rock-pools, where a crimson 
weed was floating in a bath of clear green. It was 
beautiful here, yet there was something awful in 
this loneliness to one who had only just come 
straight from the heart of a crowd. Never until this 
moment, perhaps, had she realized how well she 
loved humanity. 

Going back to her slab of granite she sat down 
again, and gazed far out seaward, thinking of all 
that had come and gone since she had last looked 
upon the broad face of ocean and listened to the 
voice of waves. Suddenly, as she was watching the 
flash of a gull’s white wings, she caught sight of 
something black bobbing up and down like a cork 
on the surface of the water, and discovered at last 
that she was looking at a human head. 

So the coast was not quite deserted after all. She 


344 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


sat and watched, and felt her interest growing in 
that bold swimmer who seemed to be making for a 
mere speck of dark rock a long way from the shore. 
What pluck he had, she thought, to trust himself to 
the sea with no comrade at hand! Of course such 
things were done every day, and there was nothing 
remarkable in the sight of a solitary human being 
breasting the tide as he was doing then. But sit- 
ting there, a lonely spectator of the feat, it began to 
grow marvellous in her eyes. 

Her keen sight enabled her to see that he had 
gained the rock at last, and was resting on it. 
Then, after a short interval, he turned shoreward, 
and she saw him coming in, apparently with strength 
unabated, toward a nook among the gray bowlders. 
It was now nearly twelve o’clock ; the sun was pour- 
ing down fiercely on the sands, and Tracy began to 
think longingly of the mid-day meal and shady 
rooms at the farm. 

She took her way homeward with rather weary 
feet, and rejoiced silently when the dark-red walls 
of the old famn-house met her gaze. Her landlady, 
standing at the kitchen door, beheld her toiling up 
the slope of the meadow path, and called out to her 
in a pitying voice: 

“ You’re just dead beat, miss, ain’t you? Don’t be 
troubling yourself to go round to the front; come 
straight across here, and you’ll be spared a step or 
two. Now, why couldn’t you bide indoors or in the 
garden till the cool o’ the day?’* 

“ Because I was impatient to get to the sea, Mrs. 
Bolt,’’ Tracy replied, coming slowly between rows 
l of vegetables to the broad space paved with snow- 
white stones, outside the back door. “ It was very 
silly of me, I know; but it is such a long time since 
I have had a glimpse of blue water.” 

“That’s what Londoners always say,” said Mrs. 
Bolt. “ I do believe they are all Jack Tars at heart. 
I don’t care much about the sea myself, and my good 


GOING TO SANDYSTONE. 


345 


man don’t either. But our boy Harry would never 
live on dry land if he could help it. Sit down a 
minute, miss. ” 

Tracy sank into a rush-bottomed chair, conscious 
that a string of onions was dangling over her head. 
Mrs. Bolt sighed, stroked her coarse apron with 
both her hard-working hands, and went on . 

“ It’s my belief that he’d rather keep company 
with fishes than human beings. This morning when 
his father looked for him he was nowhere to be found, 
but one of the men had seen him going off to the 
water. Harry-the-Swimmer they calls him ” 

A sturdy youth of eighteen, with a red freckled 
face and coal-black hair, wet and shining, suddenly 
appeared in the doorway at this moment. At the 
sight of Tracy he removed his sunburnt straw hat, 
and made her a very creditable bow. 

“So there you be, my lord,” said his mother, eye- 
ing him severely. “ I know well enough where 
you’ve come from. I’d have you understand, sir, 
that the Almighty never meant you to be wastin’ 
your precious hours in the sea; it’s only ships and 
leviathans and such-like that He hath made to take 
their pastime therein.” 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


OUT ON THE SANDS. 

“The western tide crept up along the sand, 

And o’er and o’er the sand, 

And round and round the sand, 

As far as eye could see.” 

— Charles Kingsley. 

Tracy, dreaming away the sultry afternoon in the 
cool parlor, smiled to herself when she thought of 
Harry-the-Swimmer. His red face and wet black 
hair had taken her fancy; his passion for salt water, 
and his obstinate determination “to take his pas- 
time therein,” amused her very much. In spite of 
fatigue she was already beginning to enjoy the 
change of~air and scene; and plainly furnished as the 
farmhouse was, there was no lack of comfort. The 
sofa on which she lay was so old that it could hardly 
have sustained the weight of a more substantial per- 
son ; but it was of a shape that made it a fitting 
resting-place for weary limbs; and it was supplied 
with big feather cushions which received the tired 
head and shoulders in a soft and ample embrace. 

It was a house that seemed to be full of sleepy 
sounds, that came from within and without. Just out- 
side the parlor door an ancient clock ticked loudly 
and monotonously, and some one in the kitchen was 
crooning a drowsy song. All kinds of sweet mur- 
murs drifted in from the old garden and the neigh- 
boring fields; bird-notes, the hum of insects, the 
swish of the scythe through the long grass. It was 
pleasant and shady and calm ; and lying there on the 
sofa she was glad that they had — 

346 


OUT ON THE SANDS. 


347 


“ Oped the casement to let in 

The sun, and that sweet doubtful din 
Which droppeth from the grass and bough 
Sans wind and' bird — none knoweth how — 

To cheer her as she lay. ” 

Two or three days went by before she turned her 
steps seaward again. Then came a golden after- 
noon which lured her out to follow the narrow path- 
way that led across the fields to the shore: and she 
set off, feeling fresh and strong enough for a longer 
ramble than she had taken yet. 

It was low water now, and the aspect of the scene 
had changed. There was more of the smooth yel- 
low sand to be seen, and where the tide had been it 
had left behind a treasure of delicate shells. Long 
strips of gleaming water lay one beyond the other, 
separated by ridges of sand. Masses of rock, which 
had been hidden by the flood, were now left exposed 
to the sun, draped with green and brown weed. 
Tracy, with her head bent, walked onward, fasci- 
nated by the shells, which tempted her to stoop every 
minute. At last, standing upright with a strong 
consciousness of back-ache, she suddenly found 
herself face to face with Marget Rayne. 

The first thing that struck Tracy was the girl’s 
resemblance to a grotesque figure in a child’s story- 
book, where the blues and reds and yellows are laid 
on with no sparing hand. Marget’s hues were “ an- 
gry and brave,” and strong enough to — 

“Bid the rash gazer wipe his eye. 

Her prosperity enabled her to indulge her taste for 
gay colors; but Pascoe’s admonitions, and a whole- 
some fear of Mr. Abbott, kept her plainly clad in St. 
Monica’s. Some one had said that blue would suit 
her admirably; and here, by the sea, she had donned 
a bright blue gown besprinkled with red spots. 
There was a gleam of triumph in her eyes when 
she confronted Miss Taunton. 


34 » 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“ How do you do, Marget?” said Tracy. “ It is a 
surprise to meet you here. ” 

She had fought steadily against her resentment ; 
but she could not speak to this woman without an 
inward shrinking. Half sadly she felt that her for- 
giveness was not quite complete. 

“ I wanted change of air,” Marget answered, rather 
grandly. “Willy Howard will play the organ for 
three Sundays.” 

“ It is good for you to have a holiday,” Tracy forced 
herself to say kindly. “ I see you have been picking 
up some of these lovely shells.” 

“I didn’t pick them up here. There are better 
ones yonder,” said Marget, pointing across a waste 
of sand. 

“ Where?” Tracy asked. 

“ Out there, close to the queer little rock they call 
the arm-chair. When you go up to it you can hardly 
believe that it hasn’t been cut out of the stone by 
men’s hands. The best shells are always found just 
there.” 

“Do you know Sandystone well?” said Tracy. 

“ My father used to bring me here, years ago, 
when he was well off. I was only a child then, but 
I remember a good deal about the place.” 

“ Your shells are really very beautiful,” Tracy re- 
marked, looking into Marget's basket. “ Far better 
than mine.” 

“There are plenty more where these came from,” 
replied Marget, beginning to move on. 

Afterward, when Tracy was walking slowly home- 
ward, she made up her mind to go across the sand 
next day, and inspect the arm-chair. The shells 
were beautiful indeed ; she meant to bring a basket, 
and fill it full of sea treasures for the children of St. 
Monica’s Home. Pebbles and shells would help them 
to spend many a happy winter evening; they would 
be more valued than costly toys made by human 
hands. Her mind was so full of the children’s pleas- 


OUT ON THE SANDS. 


349 


ure that she almost forgot Marget for a time, and 
found the walk to the farm shorter than it had been 
before. There were home letters to be written — a 
brief account of her doings to be sent to John Ab- 
bott — a cheery letter to Jane Shaw, and one to Aga- 
tha March. The world was not empty ; it was full 
of warm hearts and helpful hands. After all her 
anguish, Tracy could lift up her head and say, “ I 
am not lonely.” The “blessedness” that had come 
to her was of a kind that all know, and all can share 
if they will. Heartsease is a common flower enough, 
the pity is that many will not stoop low enough to 
gather it, and so toil on, and miss its healing power. 

It was later in the afternoon when she made her 
third journey to the shore. The weather had grown 
cooler; the low beams of the sun gave a peaceful 
look to everything; and she walked quickly along 
the sands, not stopping to pick up any of the shells 
that lay at her feet. The arm-chair rock, which 
Marget had pointed out, could be reached easily 
enough by an active walker ; and she went on and 
on, never pausing until she had left the shore far 
behind, and was close to the mass of granite so curi- 
ously fashioned by nature into the semblance of a 
chair. 

It was a big, massive chair indeed, furnished with 
two arms, and a cavity hollowed out between them. 
The back rose perpendicularly, and was much higher 
than the seat. All about the base were scattered 
the beautiful pink and white shells which Tracy 
coveted; but before she stooped to gather them she 
walked round to the front of the arm-chair. Some- 
body was curled up in it in a luxurious attitude of 
ease, fast asleep. It was Marget. 

In silence, with a sudden thrill of pitying kind- 
ness, she stood looking at the woman who had done 
her such a cruel wrong. The helplessness of slum- 
ber appealed to her strongly at that moment. It was 
evident that Marget had succumbed to the spell of 


350 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

utter weariness ; the golden lashes rested on a cheek 
whose vivid red had faded; the lips were paler than 
usual; her breathing was regular and quiet. It 
1 would be cruel to wake her, Tracy thought. Mar- 
get was not strong, the rest would do her good. 

She turned away from the sleeper, and set to work 
to fill her basket with the shells. Then, too, the 
seaweed began to claim her attention; she paused 
to spread out a tiny red tree with fairy-like branches, 
and lost herself in picturing the deep water world 
where it grew. 

The basket was scarcely half filled when she grew 
tired, and felt that she must sit down and rest. 
Standing erect, she looked back to the beach that 
she had left, and then turned cold with a sudden ter- 
rible fear. The tide was coming in : it was fast cov- 
ering the sand-ridges and connecting the strips of 
water around her ; and between her and the strand 
there was already a shining flood, which rippled 
under the kiss of the freshening breeze. 

It was a beautiful scene, fair with cool sunlit 
coloring; the wind curled the little waves as they 
came rolling in, and the air was filled with their 
low, sweet murmur. But Tracy’s heart stood still. 
A thousand times she had wished for death ; but to 
meet it here, alone, to feel the cold salt water creep- 
ing up closer and closer to her lips, this was what 
she had never dreamed of. And then she suddenly 
remembered Marget. Was she sleeping still? 

Yes; she was curled up in the seat of the rocky 
chair, and did not appear to have moved hand or 
foot. Tracy laid her hands upon the girl’s shoul- 
ders, and shook her gently, crying “Wake, wake!” 

Marget’s eyes opened slowly, and she looked at 
Tracy with a bewildered stare. 

“ Oh, is it you?” she said in a hurried, confused 
manner. “Where are we? I think I must have 
fallen asleep. I must be going home now.” 

“ Is there any way of getting home?” Tracy asked, 


OUT ON THE SANDS. 


35 1 

trying to steady her voice. “ Marget, it seems that 
we are cut off by the tide.” 

“The tide!” Marget repeated, starting up. “Oh, 
I remember now. Yes, there’s a way back across 
the sands of course. But what’s this?” 

She looked about her, still bewildered, pushing 
her felt hat back from her forehead, and disordering 
the thick coils of red-gold hair that were wound 
closely round her head. Her eyes wandered over 
the ever-widening expanse of bright water, and her 
brows were knitted with a puzzled air. 

“It’s so strange,” she said. “I’ve only been 
asleep a very little while, have I?” 

“I am afraid,” Tracy answered, “that 3 T ou have 
been asleep a long time. I found you sleeping when 
I came here, and did not wake you.” 

“You didn’t wake me!” Marget’s voice rose sud- 
denly to a scream. “ Then you wanted to kill me. 
You let me sleep on that I might be drowned.” 

She had risen to her feet and was standing on the 
seat of the chair-rock, staring at the water with di- 
lated eyes, her bosom heaving, her hands clasped 
convulsively together. 

“Drowned!” she repeated. “Yes, that’s it; you 
hate me and want me to die.” 

“Hush, Marget,” said Tracy quietly. “Listen! I 
want you to live. Try to think, try to be calm ; is 
there no way of escape?” 

“You know there is noway,” Marget cried furi- 
ously. “If you had wanted me to live, why didn’t 
you wake me sooner? You are as bad as a mur- 
deress. ” 

Tracy shivered from head to foot at the wild 
words. 

“O Marget!” she said, “ I did not know that there 
was any danger. I never thought about the tide at 
all. I am not used to the sea. Don’t you see that 
if death comes, it will come to us both?” 

“ But you are not afraid of death, ” Marget shrieked, 


35 2 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


‘T am afraid. I won’t die — O God, I won’t die! 
I’m happier now than I was once. I love the organ, 
and I’ve got the things that I wanted; and I don’t 
want to leave this world. I won’t leave it, I won’t 
be drowned; it’s an awful death.” 

“ Oh, hush, Marget.” Tracy tried to put her arms 
round the frantic girl ; but Marget savagely repulsed 
her. The sea was close now, swirling round the 
base of the rock and crawling over Tracy’s feet. 
She shuddered at its cold touch. And then her 
thoughts wandered back to that far-off day when she 
had gone to steal lilies on the lake at Woodcourt; 
she recalled the first heavy chill of the water, and 
the sensation of sinking down, down, into its mys- 
terious depths. Ah, what a lifetime she had lived 
through since that b} r gone summer day! Her life 
had seemed short, but it had been full of high 
thoughts and holy teachings and one golden year 
had been rich with the sweetest and purest love that 
earth could give. 

“ I am afraid to die!” wailed Marget again. “ I’m 
afraid of what may come afterward. O God, do 
let me stay here in my body — I am fond of my body, 
and I don’t mind its being a little out of shape! O 
God, do let me stay in my poor little body; don’t let 
the waters drown me — don’t let my soul go shiver- 
ing and shuddering out into nowhere! I’m not fit 
for heaven, and I won't die!” 

With the last words her voice rose to a wild scream 
of despair, as shrill as the cry of a bird — a cry that 
went ringing far across the sea. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


SAVED. 

“Oh sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is 
done, 

The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun — 

For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — 

And what is life that we should moan ? Why make we 
such ado ? ” 

— Tennyson. 

Spent and breathless with her passionate anguish, 
Marget leant against the back of the rock chair for 
support. Tracy, white and calm, fixed her hopeless 
gaze on the infinite expanse of water, which was 
now broken into millions of incoming waves by the 
fresh evening breeze. Faster and faster the tide 
rolled in, over her ankles, up to her knees, dashing 
the salt spray into her cold, pale face and chilled 
and drenched she climbed up into the seat of the 
chair, and stood by Marget’s side. The girl seemed 
almost unconscious of her presence now despair had 
made her mute and still. 

“Marget,” Tracy said, speaking close to her ear, 
“ is there no hope that some one may see us, and 
come to save us?” 

“No hope, no hope,” moaned the girl. “Only a 
few fishermen live up on the cliffs, and no one knows 
where we are.” 

For a few seconds Tracy stood silent ; the breeze 
was driving the tide before it, and blowing their hair 
about their faces ; there was indeed no hope. She put 
her arm tenderly round the shrinking figure by her 
• 2 3 353 


354 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

side. Marget did not repulse her now, she nestled 
closer in the embrace of that kind arm, and through 
the loud murmur of the sea Tracy could hear her 
moan feebly. How fast the water rose! Already it 
was washing over the slab of granite which formed 
the seat of the chair. 

“ Marget, can you hear me? I am praying for you 
with all my heart. ” 

The girl looked up at her with a gleam of hope in 
her miserable eyes. “Yes,” she said, “pray.” 

The answer came suddenly and swiftly. Again 
as she -had seen it a few days ago, Tracy caught 
sight of a black head rising and falling on the waves, 
and making toward them in spite of all resistance. 
It was a strong swimmer, breasting the tide, cleav- 
ing his way through the rolling surge, and drawing 
ever nearer and nearer to the place where they 
stood. 

“Marget, you will be saved,” Tracy cried, lifting 
her voice high above the noise of the waters. “ It 
is Harry Bolt. You must trust yourself to him.” 

A few moments more, and the swimmer had 
reached the spot. He rose out of the water, drip- 
ping, and strong as a young sea-god, shook the brine 
out of his eyes, and spoke, panting : 

“I can take one,” he gasped. “To Mew Rocks. 
Safe there.” 

Mew Rocks, as Marget knew, stood between the 
chair-rock and the shore, and were above high water. 
There would be safety indeed if she could be carried 
through the sea by those strong arms. She trem- 
bled like a leaf with impatience, and stretched out 
one thin hand imploringly to Harry Bolt; but he 
looked at Tracy. 

“No — you!” he said, speaking more clearly now. 
“ I came for you. ” 

“Hush, Marget!” 

The girl had begun a wail of anguish, but Tracy 
silenced her by a look and a touch. 


SAVED. 355 

“No, Harry; you must take her," she answered 
calmly. “ At once. Lose no time. ” 

“Then you’ll be drowned,” Harry cried, “before 
I can get back!” 

“Go!” she said, almost sternly. “It must be. 
Now, Marget, be calm; let him keep your head 
above water, and trust him entirely. Don’t lose 
your nerve. Remember that this is your only 
chance. ” 

“But I can’t leave you behind, miss,” protested 
Harry. “ I can’t do it, indeed. I didn’t know there 
were two of you here. It was you I came for.” 

“Oh, you won’t let me die!” shrieked Marget, 
clinging to her in an agony. “ Oh, make him take 
me! I want to live — I do want to live — I ” 

“Hush, Marget, you are wasting your strength,” 
Tracy said, quietly. “ He will take you. Harry, 
you must obey me ; she shall be saved ; I have said it. ” 

“ Then you give your life for hers,” he cried, with 
a sudden burst of indignation. 

“Yes; I give it willingly. Always remember 
that I was willing. Now go — go, Marget, and be 
brave.” 

The passionate desire of life lent Marget courage. 
Once more Harry Bolt glanced up at Tracy, clinging 
to the back of the granite chair ; once more he caught 
the gleam of her dark-gray eyes, and knew that 
with her there was no shadow of turning. There 
was not even a single word of farewell. He struck 
out boldly toward the Mew Rocks hampered with 
his helpless burden. 

And now that Tracy’s hour had come, was she 
ready to meet it? Yes, already she felt that the 
worst was past ; rough ways and smooth were left be- 
hind, and close in front was rest. The waves wero 
washing up higher and higher ; the water had risen 
above her knees. Marget would be saved ; that was 
enough. 

She turned her face away from the shore, and 


356 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

looked out across the open sea. Beyond this rush- 
ing, hurrying tide, the ocean lay like a vast sheet of 
living gold, and the horizon line was lost in light. 
It recalled to her mind the picture that she had 
painted and given to Wilmot Linn. Let the floods 
prevail, let the waves roll over this frail form of 
hers ; and then there would be freedom, and rest. 

And Marget would be saved. The meanest crea- 
ture who owes his safety to us becomes dear to us. 
In giving up her life for Marget, Tracy had parted 
with the last shred of ill-will ; the girl was dear to 
her now ; the love within her had risen up and con- 
quered hate. . As the water rose higher, and the 
overwrought brain began to lose its grasp on the 
realities of earth, her last clear thought was Marget. 

Suddenly a loud voice broke roughly through the 
cloud that had gathered over her bewildered senses ; 
strong arms seized her in a rude grasp, tearing 
away the hands that still clung mechanically to the 
rock ; on all sides, above the rush of the tide, there 
was a sound of shouting. In the midst of a tumult 
that seemed partly real and partly unreal, she found 
herself lifted bodily into a boat. Vaguely, as she 
closed her eyes, and rested her head on something 
that was ready for her support, she realized that she, 
too, was saved. Her sacrifice had not been required 
of her. They were taking her back to live in the 
everyday world again. 

Afterward, she had a confused remembrance of be- 
ing carried to the shore, and taken, by rugged ways, 
into a dark little cottage, scarcely better than a 
hovel. And there she became conscious that a new 
voice was speaking, and new hands touching her with 
gentle care. 

“We will get her dry and warm, and then perhaps 
she will be able to go back to the farm,” said the 
voice. It was sweet and womanly, and fell pleas- 
antly on Tracy’s dull ears that evening. But they 
could not take her home ; and the night was spent 


SAVED. 357 

wearily in the clQse bedroom of the fisherman’s cot- 
tage. 

The recollection of three days and three nights 
succeeding this was clearer in Tracy’s mind. She 
was at the farm again, lying in the long bedroom 
whose windows afforded a view of the sea. A doc- 
tor visited her; Mrs. Bolt was always in and out; 
every one was tender and kind, and the hours went 
by in a peaceful hush. One afternoon she woke up 
from a long sleep, and saw a slender figure sitting 
in a chair at the foot of the bed. 

It was the figure of a girl who might be four or 
five and twenty ; and there was a pretty daintiness 
about her which charmed the eye at once. She had 
a gentle, sunshiny face, with a fresh pink tinge on 
the cheeks, and a quantity of brown hair with plenty 
of gold in it. She wore a calicot gown, pale blue, 
with little frills; and there was a small bunch of 
pink roses and forget-me-nots at the neck. 

There she sat, quite still, enfolded in afternoon 
light ; and Tracy lay thinking how pretty she was. 
Presently she looked toward the bed, with a pair of 
bright brown eyes. 

“You have had a beautiful sleep,” she said. “It 
is time for your tea.” 

As she rose and drew near the pillow there was a 
question in Tracy’s gaze. 

“You are wondering who I am, Miss Taunton. 
My name is Milly Grant, and my father is rector of 
Sandystone. ” 

“And you have helped to nurse me,” said Tracy 
gratefully. 

“Yes; but there was not much to be done. You 
only needed absolute quiet and care ; and even now 
you mustn’t talk a great deal.” 

“ I will promise not to talk a great deal. But 
I want to know how I was saved?” 

“Well, that’s soon told,” said Milly, considering 
her patient’s face for a moment. “It was Mr. 


THROUGH PAItf TO PEACE. 


358 

Kerne who saved you. He was out in a boat with a 
fisherman, and caught sight of you on the rock/' 

“ And Marget Rayne?” asked Tracy eagerly. 

“She is quite safe; she will get strong sooner 
than you will. We have all been watching over you 
very anxiously.” 

Milly spoke with a little tremor in her voice ; and 
Tracy looked at her with a grateful smile. 

“ I am getting better,” she said. “ And you and I 
must always be friends.” 

The words rose involuntarily to her lips ; she had 
never, even in her girlhood, made many intimate 
friends ; but Milly’s tenderness and helpfulness had 
opened her heart. 

“Oh, I am glad!” Milly answered softly. “I was 
half afraid that you would go back to London and 
forget me!” 

Jane Shaw came down to Sandystone, to find that 
Tracy’s recovery was slow. She was not strong 
enough to go downstairs for many days. The large 
chamber, fresh and cool, was brightened by Milly’s 
daily visits; and Tracy soon learned all that there 
was to know about her new friend. 

Milly led the usual life of a country parson’s 
daughter, but she put into it a spirit and a meaning 
which such lives too often lack. If she sometimes 
felt her sphere too narrow and dull, she always lived 
on pleasant terms with her surroundings. There 
was peace and happiness in the quiet old rectory, 
where two younger girls were growing up, and model- 
ling themselves on Milly. No tales of being unap- 
preciated and misunderstood were poured into Tracy’s 
ears in those long quiet talks which they had to- 
gether. 


CHAPTER XLIX 


THE REWARD OF LOVE. 

“I saw that one who lost her love in pain, 

Who trod on thorns, who drank the loathsome cup ; 

The lost in night, in day was found again ; 

The fallen was lifted up.” 

— C. Rossetti. 

It was a fair morning, Tracy had been allowed to 
rise earlier than usual, and there was a promise that 
she might go downstairs to-morrow if she had a 
good day. She sat by the open casement in an old- 
fashioned arm-chair, and listened to the sweet coun- 
try sounds that were wandering in. A book was 
on her knee; some rosebuds were lying there too, 
contrasting delicately in their rich pink with the 
pale lilac of her wrapper. The faint music of the 
sea, and of the wind murmuring through great 
trees, came floating over the breath of the fields, 
and soothed her with a song of peace. 

“ Miss Tracy, ” said J ane, entering quietly. “ Here’s 
that deformed young woman asking to see you. 
Shall I let her come in?” 

“Yes, Jane, she may come,” Tracy answered. 
“You need not be afraid that she will tire me. I 
am ever so much better this morning.” 

Marget came in witha slow step, and a strange reso- 
lute look which altered her whole aspect. Her face 
was pale and set; her eyes were quiet; their old 
malignant glitter had died out. She took Tracy’s 
hand half hesitatingly, and sat down in silence. 
The deadly peril from which she had been saved had 
359 


360 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


wrought a change in the girl, and made her, it seemed, 
a gentler and simpler creature altogether. 

“ I would have seen you sooner,” she said, after a 
pause, “but they would not let me in. You were 
too ill, they told me. Are you sure that you are 
stronger now?” 

“Yes, Marget, much stronger.” 

“But I mean— strong enough to bear a great sur- 
prise?” 

The two women looked at each other. Both were 
white, both were trembling, the rosebuds fell from 
Tracy’s lap to the floor; unnoticed, the book slid 
after them. For a few seconds there was a deep 
hush, in which a bird sang out with a wild shrill 
note. Then at last Marget’s question was an- 
swered. 

“I believe,” Tracy said, “that I can bear any- 
thing now.” 

Marget got up, shaking from head to foot, and 
laid an envelope, sealed with black wax, in Tracy’s 
hand. Her lips parted once or twice before the 
words would come ; and when she spoke her voice 
was faint, and seemed as if it came from a long 
way off. 

“I worshipped him,” she said. “ I would have 
been his slave — I would have done the meanest work 
— for just one kind word a year. But he gave hap- 
piness liberally to all around him ; no one ever 
starved for kind words where he was. He had the 
power of blessing one with a look ; he always knew, 
as if by instinct, if anybody was hungering for 
kindness. And this joy continued day after day, and 
I thought it would go on forever. But you came ; 
and then the whole world seemed to change.” 

A little sigh escaped Tracy’s lips, but she sat 
quite still. 

“Let me hurry over all that followed,” Marget 
went on. “ It is enough to say that I suffered horri- 
bly. After that day, down by the river, I think I 


THE REWARD OF LOVE. 


361 


must have, gone mad. My passion grew too strong 
for me, and mastered me; I could neither eat nor 
sleep. Things were in this state when he came 
back from Scotland, and I felt that he was looking 
.forward to your return.” 

She threw out her hands and wrung them, gasping 
for breath ; and again there was a brief silence. 

“Don’t look at me!” she said. “All my life I 
have been different from other people, and some- 
thing seemed to get into me, and force me to go to 
the clergy-house that afternoon. Pascoe has told 
you that I slipped in unheard, and you know how I 
found — him. It was not the first time that I had 
looked on death, and I knew the truth at once. 
There came upon me then a dreadful calm and bit- 
terness. I saw the letter addressed to you lying on 
the table, and I knew that you had won what I had 
never had. I stole that letter, and then I fled.” 

Tracy’s slender fingers closed tightly round the 
sealed envelope that she held. 

“ I told Pascoe that I had burnt it,” Marget con- 
tinued. “ But that was a lie. I read it, and every 
word fell like a drop of molten lead on my heart. It 
was the worst punishment that could have been in- 
flicted on me. But I dared not destroy it, and so I 
sealed it up, and put it carefully away. When I was 
coming here I was afraid to leave it behind, and I 
brought it with me.” 

Her voice was getting weaker and weaker. She 
covered her face with her hands, and fell cowering 
on her knees at Tracy’s feet. 

“Even when I had got my appointment I hated 
you,” she said. “I resented your kindness — Pascoe 
had told me that you knew everything — and I felt 
that you must loathe me in your heart. But when 
we stood together on the rock, with the sea coming 
in upon us, I saw you and myself in a lightning 
flash. O Miss Tracy, I saw you as you are, and al- 
ways will be ! I, the thief, the liar, the sinner, come 


362 THEOUGIt PAIN TO PEACE. 

to you, the martyr and saint — I come to tell you 
that you have conquered me ! There was love in 
your eye when you were willing to give your life for 
mine. It was the love that won me. It wasn’t your 
life only that you offered me ; it was your heart — 
your very self. ” 

So it always has been and always must be. To 
love is to save ; to love is to see the true value of 
a soul, and long to lead it out of darkness into 
light. 

To love is to rise supreme above the bigotry, and 
falsity, and wild passion of a blinded world; and 
live, within one’s own heart, in the kingdom of 
heaven. 

With a murmured word of thankfulness Tracy 
bent forward and threw her arms round that poor 
cowering figure at her feet. Then she drew Mar- 
get’s head upon her breast, and kissed her, not once, 
but many times ; and there was silence. 

When Marget was gone, and she was alone once 
more, she lay back in her chair with closed eyes, 
clasping the unopened envelope, and feeling the 
soft breeze blowing on her face through the open 
window. If we are ever to enjoy a heaven it must 
begin in us while we are on earth ; and in Tracy 
it had begun. 

Some minutes went by before she broke the seal. 
Within the outside cover lay that letter which had 
never passed through the post; that letter which 
Wilmot Linn had written in the last hours of his 
earthly life. As she unfolded the note-paper, some- 
thing fell out of it, wrapped lightly in cotton-wool. 
It was a small gold cross, studded thickly with 
large rubies. 

And then, while the leaves rustled softly outside 
the latticed window, and summer perfumes filled 
the cool, quiet room, she read the words that she 
had longed for, and satisfied the heart’s hunger at 
last. 


THE REWARD OF LOVE. 


363 


“My own dearest Tracy — I am writing as if yon 
already know all that is in my heart ; and yet before you 
come back to me I must tell you in plain words how well 
I love you. For years I have lived an incomplete life, and 
have striven to lose myself and my sense of incomplete- 
ness in the lives around me. How far I have succeeded 
in doing this you have already seen. If by remaining 
poor I have made any rich, then indeed these years of 
unacknowledged loneliness have not been spent in vain. 

“ When you came, I felt that my dream of a perfect 
union was no idle vision. It is a truth, old as the hills, 
expressed in many tongues, ancient and modern, that 
the spirit must wander restless till it finds its mate. 
With me, this restlessness was hidden from the eyes of 
the world, and therefore the world has chosen to call 
me a confirmed celibate. But those who know me best 
have always known that I was of Charles Kingsley’s 
mind. Do you remember how he makes that honest 
sinner, Tom Thurnall, declare that, ‘of all diabolical 
dodges for preventing the parsons from seeing who they 
are, or what human beings are, or what their work in the 
world is, or anything else, the neatest is the celibacy of 
the clergy?’ 

“ A single life, like mine, often finds itself entangled 
in a fine web whose meshes are woven of other people’s 
needs. I found that I could not break the web without 
causing discomfort and pain, and I went to Scotland to 
state my case to Mr. McDougall. He has gladly promised 
me his help ; and now I can make a home for you, here, 
in this dim house behind the church. Will you come to 
me, Tracy? My darling, my one true love, how bright my 
dark room grows when I think of you ! 

“ Something may be allowed to a starved man ; re- 
member how long I have been starving, and tell me that 
you will come soon ; very, very soon. 

“ While I write, I am feeling strangely weak and worn ; 
but to be with you will be a delicious rest. There never 
was such a feeble letter as this ; I have utterly failed to 
express one half of my deep, strong love. But there is 
one thing that I must say before I end this poor scrawl 
which tells you so little of the writer. It is this— I love 
you for all eternity, because my love is not only of the 
heart but of the soul. 


364 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“ I send you the only trinket I possess, the ruby cross 
which hung round my neck when I was found. The kiss, 
that I have never given you yet, is waiting for you, 
Tracy. Come quickly, and let me renew my youth ; the 
hours are so long without you ; and I suffer until I can 
call you entirely mine. 

“ Forever and ever yours, 

“ Wilmot Linn.” 

This was the letter that she read ; and then her 
eyes closed again, while she gathered the words into 
her heart and feasted on their sweetness. Just then 
she neither knew nor felt anything but the great joy 
of possessing such a love, a love so much mightier 
than death. After a little while she began to think 
of a thousand things that she could have said to only 
one person, and to remember that the letter had 
never had an answer. But are there no answers 
save those that are given in our poor earthly fashion? 
She layback on the cushions with crowding thoughts 
and fancies ; and a great light was shining through 
them all. 

There was a happy little party assembled in the 
parlor next day. John Abbott had come down to 
Sandystone to stay with Horace Kerne. And while 
Tracy was talking to her preserver, she gave an oc- 
casional glance at Millie Grant, who flitted about the 
room, pouring out tea, and entertaining the vicar of 
St. Monica’s with a pretty, natural brightness. The 
grave John thought her adorable. 

On the day after that there was another gathering 
in the large, pleasant old room. At Tracy’s request, 
Milly had to come stay at the farm ; and it seemed 
to these four people as if they were all very old 
friends. On her part, Tracy found great pleasure 
in watching the effect of Milly’s fascinations, and 
wondered that Mr, Kerne did not fall a ready victim. 
But the two men seemed to have exchanged natures ; 
it was Horace Kerne who was grave, even to sadness, 


THE REWARD OF LOVE. 365 

and John Abbott who was enjoying himself with 
perfect unrestraint. 

“What do you think of my new friend?” asked 
Tracy, when Abbott came to her side for a minute, 
bringing a cup of tea. 

“ Of course she is charming, ” he answered. “ That 
goes without saying. Rather perilously charming,” 
he added in a low voice. 

“Yes,” said Tracy, with quiet delight, “I thought 
that you would find her so.” 

Abbott went back to the little tea-maker, whose 
table stood near one of the windows. She was 
dressed in her pale-blue gown tricked out with little 
frills, and wore a bouquet of pink roses and fern in 
her bodice. Her hands were busy with an old-fash- 
ioned urn which looked something like a sepulchral 
monument, and was an object of pride to Mrs. Bolt. 
Other roses, peeping in through the open casement, 
formed themselves into a background of flowers and 
light foliage; and John found himself wondering 
whether she could ever look as pretty again as she 
did just at that moment? But she looked quite well, 
and even better, when she sat down in a high-backed 
chair, and smiled at him over her tea-cup. 

“ It seems, ” he said suddenly, “ as if all this was 
too pleasant to be anything but a dream!” 

“Then you have not had much pleasantness in 
your life, I am afraid,” she remarked, with a win- 
ning little air of sympathy. 

“ No — when one thinks if it — perhaps not!” he ad- 
mitted thoughtfully. “ I was brought up in a Lon- 
don house, and no one seemed to think it worth 
while to take me into the country. My rambles with 
Kerne are among my brightest memories.” 

“ But people ought to have looked after you better 
when you were a child,” she cried, with a womanish 
outburst of feeling. “ It is cruel to keep children pent 
up in bricks and mortar ! Why were they so unkind?” 


3 66 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“ I don’t suppose they meant to be unkind,” he re- 
plied. “ But they never gave much special thought 
to me. My parents died when I was very small, and 
I was left a good deal to the care of men. They 
were city men, always engrossed with business, and 
they could scarcely be expected to take much notice 
of a boy. ” 

“Oh!” she said, “they must have been brutes! 
Why didn’t some woman see you and understand 
your needs? What is the use of women if they don’t 
go about in the world looking up the desolate little 
ones who can’t help themselves? A woman ought 
to know by instinct when a child wants her care. ” 

John found himself watching her with intense in- 
terest and appreciation. Her pretty brown eyes 
were dim with unshed tears ; the frills and flowers 
on her bosom were stirred by her quick breathing. 
She was — he repeated it slowly to himself — ador- 
able! 


CHAPTER L. 


TWO LOVES. 

“An answer, not that you long for, 

But diviner, will come one day.” 

— A. A. Procter. 

“ No, Mr. Kerne, it can never be.” 

The four who had been so happy in the old farm- 
house at Sandystone, were in London now. Milly had 
returned with Tracy to her City home, and was be- 
ing instructed by John Abbott in all the ways and 
ins and outs of his crowded parish. September was 
drawing to a close, and the evenings were growing 
misty again. It was in the gray time, between the 
lights, that Tracy and Horace Kerne were talking 
alone in the studio. 

“ Never? ” he asked sadly. “ O Tracy — may I call 
you Tracy? — I hoped that you would let me guard 
the treasure I had saved. I even persuaded myself 
that you must be meant for me. Can you not care 
for me just a little? ” 

“ I care for you more than a little,” she answered 
with a tender tone in her voice. “ But — don’t you 
know that mine is a feeble hold on life which may 
be loosed at any moment? Down there in the coun- 
try the doctor told me the truth.” 

“ Yes, in any moment of sudden excitement or pain 
you may — be in danger ; he replied, looking at her 
delicate face with yearning eyes. “But you may 
stay with us — God grant it ! — for years. And if you 
are always watched over, always protected, the peril 
will not be so great. Tracy, listen to me!” 

3 6 7 


3 68 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“ I will listen when you do not ask for impossible 
things,” she said, with a gentle little smile. “ Even 
if I were a stronger woman I should still cling to my 
lonely life. But I am not strong ; and so you must 
be always kind to me, and let me call you one of my 
best friends. By and by, when you have been 
longer in England, you will see some one else 
who ” 

He stopped her with a slight shake of the head. 

“We won’t talk about by and by,” she went on 
quickly. “ We will talk about Milly and John. Isn’t 
it delightful to see that dear old fellow plunging 
headlong into love without a struggle? I had not 
hoped for anything so good to happen to him. As to 
Milly, she is the sweetest thing that ever was made !” 

Horace Kerne’s face brightened. “Yes,” he an- 
swered, “ it is one of those happy bits of life that one 
seldom sees. John deserves his joy; he had a dreary 
boyhood. Somehow, it seemed as if he was always 
overlooked, and forgotten altogether.” 

“ Milly thinks him the first man in the world,” said 
Tracy, with a glad look shining in her eyes. “ I 
don’t know how to enjoy it all enough. He has not 
yet spoken quite plainly to her, I believe; but I 
shouldn’t be surprised if he did it this very day. I 
wish he would propose to her here — in my studio ! 
He shall have plenty of opportunities. Don’t you 
think I should have shone as a scheming Belgravian 
mother, Mr. Kerne?” 

He was looking at her intently, scarcely hearing 
her words, engrossed by the thought of all that she 
might be to him. He had allowed himself, unwisely, 
to cherish the hope that he might win her some day, 
although her manner had been far too calm in its 
friendliness to encourage the delusion. Good old 
John, absorbed in his own affair, had never thought 
of warning his friend of the hopelessness of this 
dream of his. In truth John Abbott, knowing the 
untold history of Tracy’s life, forgot that there were 


TWO LOVES. 


369 


other men who could not know it, and took it for 

g ranted that Horace Kerne would be satisfied with 
er friendship. 

It was a relief to her when the door opened, and 
Milly, a fresher flower than is often seen blooming in 
London, came in. Her entrance was the signal for 
Kerne’s departure. He went sadly down the long 
stairs, and out into the bustling street. Close to St. 
Monica’s church he came across Abbott, and the two 
men turned their steps to the clergy-house together. 

The new vicar was happier than he had ever been 
before in all his life, for love had entered that life 
at last. There was no need that he should have been 
desolate so long, since there were many pretty and 
charming women who would have been glad to com- 
fort him, and who indeed had manifested their kindly 
inclinations when they found an opportunity. His 
big, imposing figure, his somewhat stern face, and 
his grave manner, made him an object of interest, 
although he had never been aware of the fact. While 
Wilmot Linn lived he had scarcely been conscious of 
his loneliness, for Wilmot’s wealthy nature enriched 
all the lives around him, and Abbott had lived nearer 
to him than any one. But, just when he was feeling 
that the clergy-house was a gloomy abode — just 
when Fordyce was growing more absent in mind, 
and Mrs. Deale more feeble in body — just after Pas- 
coe had gone away — he chanced to meet Milly. 

" John/' said Horace Kerne, glancing at his watch, 
“ we have half an hour before dinner. Come up into 
the study at once; I have something to say to 
you.” 

Abbott assented. 

They went upstairs; and when they got inside 
the study Horace closed the door. 

“ What is the matter?” the vicar asked anxiously. 
“ I have proposed to Tracy Taunton,” said Horace, 
standing with his back to the empty fireplace. “ And 
she has refused me.” 

24 


37 ° 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


John started visibly. “Yes," he said in a low 
voice, “ Yes; of course she has refused you." 

“ Heaven only knows what you mean when you say 
‘of course’!" exclaimed Kerne irritably. “I am a 
rich man ; I can give her care and luxury, and I love 
her as I never loved woman before. Is there any 
reason why I should fail to win her?" 

John paused. As he stood in the oriel window he 
looked large and stern ; the shadowy light seemed to 
deepen the intensity of his expression. 

“There is a reason,” he answered gravely. “I 
wish I had told you sooner, but I did not see what 
was coming. Wilmot Linn loved her, and would 
have married her if he had lived. And she will never 
love any one else. " 

There was a pause again in which Kerne simply 
stood and looked at his friend. 

“ Then I have no living rival?" he said at last. 

“ Don’t talk so, Horace," John exclaimed suddenly. 
“Don’t talk of rivals in this room where he died! 
They were as one, those two, and they will be one 
hereafter. She waits until her call comes, and her 
heart is set on carrying on the work that was dear to 
him. My dear fellow, don’t speak again of marry- 
ing her! Be her friend — she likes you, I know — but 
give up the idea of love." 

“ It isn’t easy to give up the idea when a man has 
taken it into his head. You would not find it so, 
John, although you are so ready to give advice,” said 
Kerne, with a bitterness not strictly just. 

Abbott was deeply moved. In the light of his 
own lonely past he saw with sad clearness that Hor- 
ace had suffered, and would suffer acutely. Beside 
his newly found happiness Kerne’s disappointment 
looked all the darker. Yet what could be said? 

“ It won’t be easy to give up the idea. I know, 
too well, that it will be terribly hard, " he answered 
slowly. “ I wish with all my heart, old man, that 
I had told you her story sooner. " 


TWO LOVES. 


371 


“I wish you had," replied Kerne quietly. “But 
I’m not sure that it would have made any difference. 
My hour was come, I suppose. ” 

“ It generally does come at last," John remarked. 

“ I’ve had a hard, rough life,” said Kerne. “ I’ve 
worked away out there with all my might.” 

He spoke as if he had earned the right to obtain 
any prize on which his heart was set. It was, per- 
haps, a natural feeling; but John knew that Horace 
had enjoyed the hardness and roughness of his life, 
and that hard work was a necessity to a man of his 
active temperament. 

“You are not the man to let any trouble make a 
wreck of you, Horace, ” he said. 

“No,” Kerne answered, “I’m not such a fool. 
But just at this moment I’m feeling as if I’d worked 
for nothing. What is money good for, if it can only 
buy the things that one doesn’t particularly care to 
have?” 

“ It can buy the things that other people care to 
have,” said John significantly. “The very things 
that a great many can’t possibly go on living with- 
out. ” 

“You are thinking of your charities, old man. 
The parson in you has spoken.” Horace gave a 
rather bitter little laugh. 

Abbott was silent; but his eyes sought Kerne’s 
changing face. 

“ What about the work that she takes an interest 
in?” Kerne went on abruptly. “ Something that her 
heart is set on carrying on?” 

John told him about St. Monica’s Home in a few 
words. He did not try to make his story interesting ; 
he gave a plain statement of facts. But while Hor- 
ace listened there was a subtle change in his dark, 
eager face. John knew that his friend was quieted 
and softened; he knew, too, that Tracy would be 
vexed with his vain importunity no more. 

“Well, old man,” said Horace, when he had fin- 


37 2 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


ished, ‘you have given a new direction to my 
thoughts. ” 

He took out a cigar, and deliberately proceeded 
to hold a match to it, but his hand was not as steady 
as usual. 

“ How dark it grows!” he said. ‘ I shall go back 
to the hotel, and think everything over. She has 
given me a headache, John, and a heart-ache. It 
strikes me that I should like to retaliate by doing 
her a good turn.” 

“ It would be rather fine in you if you did. But 
then, Horace, you are always rather fine. ” 

“Bosh, old man!” said Kerne scornfully. 

“I used to think so,” persisted John, “years ago, 
when you were kind to a certain poor little beggar, 
you know. Depend upon it, something good for 
yourself will come out of this headache and heart- 
ache. Not the kind of good that you wanted ; but a 
much better kind.” 

“John, you don’t think that she and I are fitted 
for each other?” said Horace, with a keen, ques- 
tioning glance. 

“No, I don’t. If it had been possible for her to 
take you there would have been mutual disappoint- 
ment. So you are off? Well, look in early to-mor- 
row. ” 


CHAPTER LI. 


PEACE. 

“Then through the outer darkness burdensome 
I hear again the tender voice that calls, 

‘ Follow me hither, follow, rise, and come. ’ ” 

— C. Rossetti. 

A week later it was made known that Horace 
Kerne was going back to Melbourne. There was 
no sentimental parting with Tracy. He listened to 
her farewell words, and even saw the tears gather 
in her eyes, without moving a muscle of his face. 
He said good-by quite simply, refrained from press- 
ing the slender fingers that rested passively in his, 
and marched resolutely to the door. Then he looked 
back for one second. And no one ever knew how 
vivid an impression was stamped upon his memory in 
that swift flash of time. 

To the last day of his life he would remember how 
she looked, as she stood near the easel, and how the 
light fell softly on her pale face and wistful eyes. 
She liked him and was sorry for him ; that was all. 

“ If I had had even the shadow of a reason for 
staying,” he said to himself, “I would never have 
gone away. But a man who could misunderstand 
her must be a fool. With me it must be all or noth- 
ing. She could give me — just a little — and I have 
chosen nothing. ” 

There was no particular trace of pain on his fea- 
tures when he entered the study at the clergy-house. 
Abbott, who was waiting for him dejectedly, gave 
him an anxious glance of scrutiny. 

373 


374 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


“Is it all over, Horace?” he asked. “And you 
did not tell her what you have been doing?” 

“ It is all over, and I have told her nothing. I 
don’t want her to know anything till I’m miles 
away. Do you suppose I want thanks, or any non- 
sense of that kind?” 

The vicar made an uneasy movement. “ You don’t 
realize what a fine thing you have done, ” he said 
sadly. 

“It’s not particularly fine,” Horace replied in a 
matter-of-fact tone. “ I had a thousand or two that 
I could spare. It is not a case of the widow’s mite; 
there’s no need for me to go without gloves, or smoke 
fewer cigars. J ohn ! ’ ’ 

“Yes, Horace.” 

“It’s astonishing how this woman has influenced 

__ _ a 

me. 

Abbott said simply that it was. 

“I’m determined that this affair shan’t make me 
gloomy or fierce,” Kerne went on after a brief si- 
lence. “It’s nobody’s fault, old man. And if what 
I have done will give her rest — let her feel that there 
is no more need for working so terribly hard — then I 
know you’ll all bless me for it.” 

“ We shall all bless you; there’s no doubt^of that,” 
John answered heartily. “I wish you would stay 
with us.” 

“ It seems to me that the only decent end to this 
matter is to go as quickly as possible,” rejoined 
Horace desperately. “ If I stayed, I might be fool 
enough to go over the old ground again, and make 
myself a nuisance. ” 

In a few minutes more he was gone. 

Not until the next day did John venture to tell 
Tracy that Kerne had bought the premises adjoining 
St. Monica’s Home. The work that she had been 
laboring to complete was taken out of her hands; 
she might pause now, and have leisure to get strong. 

Abbott thought that she received the news very 


PEACE. 


375 


quietly; but when he looked into her face he saw the 
light of a great joy in her eyes. She was trembling, 
and her cheeks flushed and paled. Milly, who was 
in the studio, came at once to her side. 

“Go and lie down, and think it all over, Tracy,” 
she said tenderly. “ Begin your rest to-day. ” 

“ I think I will go to my room for a little while,” 
Tracy replied. “Make John stay here and talk to 
you.” 

John was by no means unwilling to stay, although 
half the parish was wanting him. Milly, in a soft 
bronze gown, was pretty enough to make a man 
forget a thousand duties. Her brown hair was 
loose and soft about her brow, and coiled in thick 
twists at the back of her small head. Her cheeks, 
fresh and dimpled, had not lost their apple-blossom 
tint in London air. John looked at her, and felt that 
it really was not safe to go near her, unless he had 
made up his mind to speak plainly at once. 

“ Miss Grant, ” he said, “ these good-byes are among 
the saddest things in life. I — I — don’t want any 
more of them. Parting with Horace Kerne has cut 
me up a good deal.” 

He paused ; and his grave face showed traces of 
feeling. As he stood near one of the windows, he 
looked so tall, and massive, and helpless, that the 
little woman became suddenly conscious of her own 
mighty strength. 

“I am so sorry for you,” she said softly. “You 
do look very sad. We will try to comfort you.” 

“ Promise not to leave me,” said John, in despera- 
tion. “If I have to part with you I know I can’t 
stand it. The clergy-house is getting awfully 
dreary. If you won’t come to me, Milly, how shall 
I face my life?” 

“But I will come to you,” Milly answered. She 
spoke the sentence with her head on his broad 
shoulder, but she never knew exactly how she came 
to be in his arms. Nor could she have told the pre- 


376 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 

cise moment when he began to kiss her. But she 
dimly remembered afterward that his kisses were 
many, and his words few. 

“ If we could but be married before the winter sets 
in!” said John. 

“ Mamma won’t hear of it till the spring,” sighed 
Milly. 

“ I shall try to soften your father’s heart. He will 
feel for me, Milly. And Tracy must talk to your 
mother. A man can’t go on enduring things indefi- 
nitely,” added John, a little vaguely. “I was get- 
ting helpless with misery. ” 

“ You did look very helpless, dear ; I was compelled 
to come to your aid,” said Milly, with a sweet little 
air of protection. The top of her small brown head 
did not reach his shoulder. 

Tracy agreed with John in thinking that it was a 
mistake to postpone happiness. She roused herself, 
and wrote a moving letter, which brought Mrs. Grant 
up to London; and when she had got Milly ’s mother 
into her power, the game was fairly in her own 
hands. People might say, if they liked, that it was 
an absurdly short courtship; but John and his 
stanch ally protested stoutly against delay. 

Early in November John went down to Sandy stone 
to be married; Tracy did not feel strong enough 
to undertake the journey, and was not present at the 
wedding. But it was her face which greeted the 
bride and bridegroom when they came back to the 
clergy-house, and her hands had been busy there. 

She had been very happy while she was occupied 
in brightening the dim rooms with artistic touches. 
It did not seem sad or strange that another woman 
would be mistress of the home that was to have 
been her own. It gladdened her to feel that a full, 
warm life would be lived here; a life sweet with 
healthy common joys, and everyday interests. John 
would be happy ’in the good, old-fashioned, natural 
way; nor could she desire anything better for him 


PEACE. 377 

than this. As to Milly, she was born to be the light 
of some one’s home. 

The next event was the marriage of Agatha and 
Pascoe in the early spring. The old church was 
fair with Easter blossoms; and Agatha, dressed sim- 
ply in white, wore a wreath of natural flowers which 
Tracy’s hands had made. It was an ideal wedding; 
the bride and bridegroom were both so young and 
so beautiful that they seemed to belong to some 
Arcadia of the past, rather than to this dim city of 
to-day. 

The summer days came; but Laura and her sister 
did not meet. Tracy decided not to go far from 
London, and spent a month with Mrs. Will wood 
in the shady house by the river. Then she came 
back to her studio, and busied herself with her work 
again; but the need for excessive toil was over, 
and she had more time now to give to her friends. 
They were with her very often. Milly came to see 
her every day; the girls from the Home ran in and 
out, and talked about the new wing which was to be 
opened at the close of the year. She took a keen 
interest in the furnishing of the new rooms, and 
helped the matron in making arrangements. Agatha 
Rayne, too, was a frequent visitor, and clung with 
never-failing love to the place in which she had 
spent her girlhood. 

Perhaps it was because they were all so busy, and 
so happy in their business, that this year seemed to 
fly so fast. When they found the autumn stealing 
away they could hardly realize that winter was close 
upon them. It was a perfect autumn ; balmy, and 
sweet, and still, 

“I think," said John Abbott in a satisfied tone, 
“ that we shall be ready to open the new wing on 
All Saints’ Day. And there is no doubt that we shall 
get one of the princesses to come.” 

When that day dawned, bright and peaceful as any 
of the days that had gone before it, Tracy rose and 


378 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


looked eagerly out upon the busy world. It seemed 
to wear a welcoming look that morning; her heart 
went out to all those hurrying crowds that passed 
along the streets. She was greeted with a breath of 
fragrance as she entered the studio, and found her 
table covered with violets. 

“The girls have been here, Miss Tracy," said 
Jane, “and they have brought these flowers for you 
to wear in honor of the day." 

She had scarcely finished breakfast when John Ab- 
bott came in, less tranquil than usual, and full of 
glad anticipation. “ I hope everything will go off 
well," he said. “ There seems to be nothing forgot- 
ten. The princess is to arrive at three, you know. 
What do you think of the weather?" 

“Oh, there is not a doubt about the weather," 
Tracy replied. “ It was never more settled than it 
is now" 

“Never," said John, going to the window. “Only 
Milly has been pretending to perceive a rainy smell 
in the air." 

“ It is very wicked of her, " Tracy laughed. “ Don’t 
let her tease you, John. There will be no rain to- 
day. " 

“You must wear your violets," he said, looking 
at her with critical eyes. “ And your new gray gown 
and bonnet. When I write to Horace I want to tell 
him that we all thought of him, and that you were 
at your very best. That will be quite true, won’t it, 
Trac3 T ?" 

“Yes, John," she answered, “quite true." 

“I hope," he said after a little pause, “that Wil- 
mot knows what we are doing to-day. All the time 
that I have been planning everything his face has 
been before my eyes. I think, somehow, that he 
must see that we have done our best." 

He saw her lips part, but no sound came from 
them. Then she met his gaze, and smiled brightly. 

The next to come in was Milly. It was two o’clock 


PEACE. 379 

when she appeared in the studio, her face fresh and 
flower-like, her brown eyes sparkling. 

“ My dear Tracy, are you ready?” she said. “ There 
is only an hour ; we ought to take our places. Are 
you tired, darling?” 

As she asked the last question her face and voice 
changed. She put her hand on her friend’s shoulder, 
and regarded her with an anxious glance. 

“ It is only fatigue,” Tracy replied. “ Don’t wait 
for me, dear. I will lie down on the couch for a lit- 
tle while.” 

As she went toward the sofa she moved very slowly, 
and then sank down upon the cushions with a faint 
sigh of weariness. 

“ I thought I should have been stronger,” she said. 
“ You must go without me, Milly. But tell the girls 
that I have put on my new gown, and I am wearing 
their violets. Open the window, dear — this window 
near me; it is very warm to-day. I shall hear the 
people shout when the princess comes.” 

Milly kissed her and departed. 

Lying there in quietness, Tracy looked up at a 
white cloud which sailed slowly above the roof of the 
opposite buildings. The day was as calm as sum- 
mer, the air sweet and soft as it came in through the 
open window; and the room was filled with the scent 
of violets. She wore some of the flowers on her breast ; 
a large cluster was held loosely in her hands. She 
lay at ease and listened; the clocks clanged out the 
hour of three; and presently, above the ceaseless 
roar of the street, there rose the great shout of the 
people, telling her that the princess had come. 

The sound died away, and it seemed as if all other 
sounds died with it. Was the room fading, or was 
it this soft, bright cloud that was spreading slowly 
round her, which hid familiar things from her tired 
eyes. Did she speak words, or only dream that she 
spoke them? There was no one near to hear what 
was uttered or sighed in the quiet room ; but some- 


THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE. 


380 

thing within her said softly, “ You are here at 
last!” 

“ Miss Tracy!” 

The voices came ringing gayly up the dim stairs 
that led to the studio. The girls from the Home, fol- 
lowed by Milly and Agatha, were coming to tell her 
that the great event of the day was over. One little 
maid of ten, who had always been a pet of hers, was 
the first to enter the room, and run joyfully to the 
side of the couch. But she stepped back quickly, 
and turned to the others with her finger lifted. 

“Hush,” she whispered, “hush! She is fast 
asleep.” 

Milly Abbott advanced with a quiet step, and a 
look of solemn expectation in her eyes. She bent 
over her friend, lying there tranquilly in the light of 
the golden afternoon, and tenderly touched the pale 
forehead with her lips. There was no movement, 
no sigh. A faint breeze wandered in, and gently 
stirred the violets resting in the soft folds of the 
gray dress ; and she saw that death had left on that 
beloved face the smile of an everlasting peace. 


THE END. 


The “Broadway Series ” of Copyright Novels. 


NEW NOVEL, by JAMES PAYN. 


A 

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